


i'm counting your heartbeats, they're all i have left

by magnetichearts



Series: kiss me on the mouth and set me free [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence after 6x04, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, House Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Rape, Mutual Pining, Ramsay is His Own Warning, basically i wrote a 60k super melodramatic fic about jonsa and everyhting i hated about seaosn 8, being friends wth sansa stark, i tried not to be too mean but tbh i don't think i succeeded, i tried to fix it, i'm not tagging any other ships bc i might honestly write a canon divergent au for them as well, if you like daenerys this fic is not really for you, jaime lannister getting a good fucking life, sansa stark and arya stark being badass sisters, the soulmarks are just totally a plot device, this is my brand btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-10 19:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 60,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetichearts/pseuds/magnetichearts
Summary: Sansa is as cold as the North, as unforgiving as the winter that sweeps through Winterfell, as fierce as a wolf. Sometimes she thinks of those traumas, rips the scabs open to see if she can feel anything again. She must take a moment, and it’s difficult, but sometimes she loses herself in memories of Arya and Bran, in memories of Rickon and Mother and Father, in memories of Robb, Robb, Robb, always Robb, to remind her that she was loved, at least, once upon a time. Those memories, they help her feel something other than pain. And of course, there is Jon. It is Jon, at the end, every time, and she must close her eyes and remember. He is ever so easy to love, ever so easy for her to lose herself in. For the sake of the both of them, Sansa will have to learn how to love from afar, how to love through pain.It had never been something she was particularly good at.or; sansa, jon, at the end of the world, the end of everything[based on the prompt, "when soulmates kiss for the first time, they feel all the pain the other has been through throughout their entire lives"](title from "search the night" by forever ends here)





	1. act i

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys!!! so basically this is my rewrite of season 6, 7, and 8 of game of thrones but entirely just with details that i wish had been added into the story and giving the characters the ending i think they deserve. this is entirely my opinion, so no hate fr it please!! i've been very handwave-y with some of the situations but i just ask that you be courteous of it. 
> 
> this fic features details from the books and as such some characters may seem a little ooc as they are based more on their book counterparts than television (arya, for example) but you don't need to have read the books to pick up on it, you can have just watched the show as it is mostly based on that. 
> 
> i spent a whole month writing and editing this fic and it's completely done! i just thought i would break it up into 3 parts so it would be a little easier to understand and absorb! i'll post one part each week! hopefully on thursdays!
> 
> my immense thanks to annie, without whom this fic would not be possible. she saw every moment of it and cheerleaded me through it with her constant and endless support when i complained to her about it and helped me with some really tricky spots. i'm also insanely grateful to zee for her assistance with jon's character and just constant support. this fic would absolutely not be possible without them and their encouragement means so much to me.
> 
> what i listened to while writing  
annie's jonsa playlist  
marysia's jaime playlist

**i. the murder of jon snow**

When the knife sinks into his heart, his only saving grace is that he will never kiss _ her. _

He will never hurt her, and so he will be able to contend with all that he has done, all the lives he has stolen from the world, all the people that had fallen at the slice of his blade, all of the blood coating his hands. 

When the words _ Sansa Stark _ had first appeared above his heart before, he had always hid them, never ever taken his shirt off, refused to hurt her with the name that was on his chest. He couldn’t have beared it if she was another victim of his life as well, another victim of his luck, of the gods’ desire to hurt anyone who got too close to him. 

The knife plunging into his heart goes right through the name, and it is only fitting that he should die in this moment. 

He covets death now. He could not help but love her. She was far too easy to hate, and he never liked taking the easy way out. 

**ii. the rape of sansa stark**

Ramsay had taken a knife and dragged it over _ his _ name, over and over again. The skin there is raised, red and raw. You can only see the name if you look hard enough. 

She contemplates throwing herself from the highest tower in Winterfell, plunging a dagger into her heart. Death seems like the easiest way out, the best answer for her. 

Ramsay couldn’t get what he wanted unless he killed her. And he needed her, the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, the last true heir of Winterfell. 

She hopes she is not the last heir. 

But Ramsay was a monster wrapped in flesh and blood, and he had other ways of controlling her. so he forces himself upon her, night after night. She used to scream into her pillow, and now she sits there, numb and cold as the snows of Winterfell around her. 

Is it worse or better than it is happening in her home, her favorite place in the world? Winterfell’s ghosts roam its halls, and sometimes, she thinks she has joined them. 

**iii. the hair of the tullys**

The wildlings would call her kissed by fire, he thinks. 

Her hair is the brightest thing for miles around, and he stops and locks eyes with her. No. Her eyes are the brightest thing for miles bluer than the sky, bluer than the ice on the Wall. 

She looks haggard, hair sloppily pulled back into a braid, far too thin and with soot and ash streaking her cheek. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. 

He does not allow himself to wonder, when she falls into his arms. He does not let his heart sing, does not let his body sigh as its soul slots into place. 

(or, at least, he tells himself he does not. 

He buries his head into her hair and just _ breathes._

**iv. the meeting of the starks**

He clutches her, tightly, so tightly. She will never feel truly safe again, she thinks, must travel back in time to when her lady mother brushed her hair and exchanged smiles with her lord father in order to feel secure once more. 

She will never feel truly safe again, but she has not survived this long only to give up, and if she must save herself, build a shield from scars and memories and determination, then so be it. 

Here, in his arms, she thinks safety is relative. It is the only place where she has allowed herself to breathe. 

**v. the story of the eldest daughter**

“He raped me.” She does not mince words, does not offer any niceties. His hands tighten on the cup, and he smashes it against the stone wall. 

“I will kill him,” is the second thing she says, and he perhaps he is mad, but he cannot allow her anywhere near him. He is not Father, but he still has Stark blood flowing through his veins, and he will do anything he can to protect her. 

“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument, and where the old Sansa would have shrunk from such a tone, this new one, carved from steel and iron, simply sips her ale, stares him in the face. 

“I will tear him apart,” he snarls. “You will never come near him again. He will never touch you again.” 

“My life has never been for you to decide.” The words are true, but they harken back to ignored stares, venom words, and he flinches. Sansa does not. 

He wonders when she knew how to hurt people. This is her weapon, he decides. Not Valyrian steel, but the truth, warped and honed, mangled and mutilated. The truth is her knife, and she knows how to wield it. 

Sansa sets the mug down, and leans forward. “I want to spill his blood, Jon. You know how that feels. You can help, or you can not. I will do it either way.” 

He realizes the Sansa he knew is long gone, and in front of him is a woman, is an ethereal being. He thinks she is stronger than all of the gods put together. 

**vi. the killing of ramsay ** <strike> **bolton**</strike> ** snow**

Jon will never understand, she thinks. 

Ramsay taunts her from his cell, asks if she mourns Rickon, asks if she has fucked her bastard brother yet. She smiles. 

It is this that unnerves him. 

Ramsay has taught her a great many things; she knows. Littlefinger and Cersei and the rest of them. She is smarter than all of them. 

She has become something unto herself, something far more dangerous. 

She still knows who she is, and she is not afraid to bare her teeth. 

(arya may be more wolf than woman, but she is the she-wolf)

And the wolves command the hounds, as always, so when she raises her head and sets his own dogs on him, there is nothing but absolution settling into her gut. Jon will never understand. 

She will never be able to steal back what he stole from her, but she can stand against the storm all the same.

And without the she-wolf, there cannot be a pack. 

**vii. the mother of jon snow**

He wonders if the ghost of his father roams the halls of Winterfell. His body is buried in the crypts all the same, and although the ghost of Robb is lost somewhere in the Twins, he would think it a comfort to know Eddard Stark still commanded the stone castle. 

Then Sam tells him who his father is, who his mother is, and his entire world drops out from underneath itself. 

For all he wondered if his father was in Winterfell, he never wondered if his mother was as well. 

When he tells Sansa, her eyes widen in shock. She seems taken aback, but nothing seems to shock her for long anymore, and soon, her face is settling into that impassive mask he hates so much. 

“A Targaryen and a Stark,” she whispers. “You may be the most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“I wish I was not,” he growls. He paces his chambers. “I despise them.” It’s quiet, the confession, but it is true. “My _ mother _ and _ father. _” He spits the words. “I despise them.” 

Sansa says nothing, simply arches an eyebrow and waits for him to continue. “They doomed the rest of the realm because they fell in love. Aemon Targaryen once told me love is the death of duty, and he was right.” 

“Jon,” she says softly. 

“Elia Martell and her children were killed because my mother and father believed their love above the laws of the realm.” He lifts his eyes, meets hers. “I will not make the same mistake as them.” 

**viii. the confession of sansa stark**

She sucks in a breath. It is the closest he has ever come to admitting what is between them. Forever the dance of destiny. She wonders what name Cersei has above her heart. 

_ She wonders what name Jaime holds above his heart. _

But the Starks are cursed, all of them. She holds her bastard <strike> brother</strike> cousin’s name (why does she hold his false name on her skin?) above her heart, and she has always wondered if he holds her name above his. 

(just because you have a soulmate doesn’t mean you find love)

She presses a hand just above her breast, and his eyes track the movement before they snap up to hers. The meaning is undeniable. 

With a sweep of her skirts, she brushes past him and flees the halls of Winterfell. 

**ix. the thoughts of the targaryen hair**

He fists his hands into his hair, punches the stone wall. He cannot, he _ will not _ allow himself to think about what she has just done. 

All that pain that he has been through his whole life, all of that despair, he could not bear it if he was the cause of more pain for her. 

He will never touch her, no matter how his body craves to. 

**x. the silence of winterfell**

They do not speak for weeks, no more than pleasant niceties exchanged in front of northmen to appear as though everything is alright. She is cold, colder than she can ever remember being. 

She has not felt this cold since Ramsay, since Littlefinger. She has learnt there is no strength in being alone. 

At night she lies in her chambers, sweat coursing over her skin from dreams, dreams she should not have and feels perverse for having. 

She grips her furs, clenches her eyes shut. Wishes, for not the first time even that night, that one of her siblings were here with her. She wishes she had died with Robb, sometimes, wishes she had escaped with Arya, wishes she had burned with Bran and Rickon. 

She is the bird trapped in its cage, wings clipped. 

“Jon,” she says. She forces him to look at her, inclines her head gently towards her solar. He looks as though she has stabbed him, but Jon follows her anyways. 

(he will always follow her)

He shuts the door behind him. “We cannot continue like this,” she whispers. “The lone wolves die. Father used to say that.” 

Jon flinches at her words. “He is not my father.” 

She straightens, glares at him. “Do not disrespect him like that ever again. You are still the heir to Winterfell. You are still the Stark heir.”

He looks away from her. “They killed me, when I was at the Wall, Sansa.” It is the first time he has said her name in weeks, and it spreads just underneath her skin like a warm fur, like sunlight. “They killed me. Put a dagger right through your name.” 

The words are less of a blow than she had expected them to be, and she shuts her eyes. 

“Ramsay ripped your name from my skin.” She keeps her eyes closed, and she cannot see him. 

But she can feel him, feel as he suddenly moves closer to her. But this is not the time. 

There is still Cersei. There is still the Night King. 

She wonders about the girl she used to be, one who was fascinated with soulmates. The one who was devastated to learn that her parents weren’t soulmates, who was jealous of Jeyne when her name appeared. The one who believed love and beauty were more important than everything else. 

She breathes, and can only think about how grateful she is that the name appeared after her father died. She could not bear it if anyone else saw it. 

There is still shame in it, and she wonders if it will ever go away. 

“There is no time for this, Jon. The Dragon Queen is to the East. There are threats from all directions. We cannot.” 

“We will never.” His voice is low, pitched. “I cannot bear to put you through that pain.” 

At this, her anger flares. Her eyes shoot open, and she stalks forward, much like how she would imagine a lioness stalks its prey. “You do not get to decide how much pain I endure. Only I do.” 

**xi. the king in the north**

He wonders what he did to deserve this. 

The chants of Northmen are deafening, but all he can think of is Sansa, sitting next to him, sitting where Catelyn once sat with Ned. It is she who should be in his lord father’s seat, and he next to her, her loyal servant. 

It is now when he misses Robb with a ferocity is sickens him. He misses his brother, yes, his brother, who he would have died fighting for. He misses Arya, quick and nimble. He misses the sound of Rickon’s laughter and the softness of Bran’s hair. 

(the wolf and the dragon have always been at war within him)

He turns back to Sansa, and waits. She gives him a nod. He will never be able to take his eyes from her. He is not a king. But she is a queen. But she needs him to be a king right now. Jon, Jon is a warrior, but Sansa is an army. She is what he fights for, the only thing he fights for. She is the queen he goes to war for. And if he must be king so she succeeds, so be it. 

He stands, accepts the tangled web of destiny that has led him to this moment. 

**xii. the dragon queen**

The missive arrives, and she wants to burn it. She recognizes that seal, the one that caused her father to flinch every time he saw it. It is the same one that struck fear through Cersei, the same one that caused the queen to burn everything with it. 

But she is smarter than all of them. She will never let fear overtake her. She knows the only way to answer the dragon queen is with intelligence. 

Jon may be the wolf, but she is the one with the teeth. 

“I will not go,” he says, refusing. She folds her hands. 

“I know. I know you do not want to go.” For the first time, she lets her facade crack, reaches out and wraps his hands in hers. “I do not want you to go either. After all of the family we have lost, all we have suffered, apart from each other, I want to stay here.” She smiles sadly. “Winterfell is our home. We took it back from the Boltons, and it is where you and I belong. It is the only home I have ever known.”

Jon casts his eyes down to the table. “I will not leave you alone. Not so soon.” 

She sighs. “Jon, you must.” He begins to protest, but she holds up a hand to silence him. “You must answer the dragon queen. She wants the support of the north. You can best speak for us. You are the king.” 

“I am only the king because they do not know the truth. And because you have given me your throne.” 

She laughed, walking around and cupping his face in her hands. “Jon, you will always be the son of Ned Stark. No matter what, he raised you. He was your father. And don’t worry, Jon Snow. When the time comes from me to take the throne of the North back, I will.” 

Jon’s hands curl around her wrists, and she presses a kiss to his forehead before drawing away. “Promise me one thing, though. Do not bend the knee. The North has been through enough. We will be independent. I trust no one but another Stark to protect us all. And you are the only Stark I trust.” 

He looks at her, with those eyes that look so much like her father’s, with those eyes that look so much like _ Arya’s, _ and the longing for her sister intensifies, threatens to choke her. “I promise, Sansa.” 

**xiii. the meeting of the dragon and the wolf**

It occurs to him, that he is standing in front of the dragon queen, that she does not know of his parentage. 

What is she, his aunt? 

She smiles, but he has been around enough women who are far smarter than they let themselves show that he seems right through her. 

In his mind, he thinks that Daenerys is not at all like Sansa. Sansa hides her intelligence better than he could have ever imagined. Daenerys has none of the political venom Sansa does. 

He does not know if this is a good or bad thing. 

“The King in the North. Welcome.” He will not bow. He will not bow. He will not bow. 

“Your grace.” She will never be his queen. The only queen he knows is Sansa. 

Her smile turns sharper, and he feels a shard of fear slip down his spine. 

“I have come to ask you that you contribute your forces to my cause.” 

“And what would that be?” Playing dumb might be his best way out of here. The dragon queen is powerful, yes, but she is not a wolf. Dragons may have fire, but wolves have teeth, and they endure. 

The smile slips from her face, just for a fraction of a second, but he will not let take the North. Sansa would never forgive him if he did. 

Daenerys gets up from her throne, walks down to him. She really is quite beautiful. The dress she is wearing exposes the skin of her shoulder, and he wonders if she holds a name above her heart. 

“My rightful claim to the throne, of course. I will be the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and I ask that you help me do so.” 

Jon hears the second meaning threaded throughout those words. “I have a request of my own. I ask that you contribute your dragons, to fight the enemy to the North.” 

A perfect eyebrow raises. “And what enemy would that be?” 

**xiv. the sisters stark**

When she sees her, it is like everything and nothing all at once. 

It is like coming home. 

She cannot restrain herself from clutching Arya close to her, arms tightly locked. For a moment, she feels scar tissue beneath her fingers, and curses herself. This is her sister, her _ little _sister. 

She is a failure of a Stark. What kind of she-wolf cannot protect her own pack? 

(her mother was not even born a stark, but she had more wolf than fish in her as well)

When she pulls away there are no tears in her eyes, although she knows this is as good an occasion as ever for them. 

Arya looks, so old, so haunted. The fraction of a second before her sister blinks stretches endlessly, and she can see the ghosts that haunt her eyes.

“Oh, thank the gods,” she whispers, dragging Arya closer for another hug. This one, her sister returns, clutching her as tightly as she is. 

They collapse, slowly, until the daughters of Eddard and Catelyn Stark are grasping each other like a lifeline in the middle of the court at Winterfell. 

**xv. the death of duty**

The dragon queen has no respect for the Northmen, he realizes. He does not think she has any respect for the people of Westeros, but he holds his tongue. She will learn that soon enough. She will understand what it means to be a ruler. 

The dragon queen is powerful, and extraordinarily kind when she wishes to be. But, more than anything, she is a conqueror. 

And conquerors cannot rule.

He does not bring this up, but he can barely restrain himself from running away when she mentions bending the knee. 

He will never bend the knee, not for a queen who thinks ruling and burning people to ashes are the same thing. Not for a queen who switches from good and kind to mad and power-hungry. He will only bend the knee to one person, and she has already bent her knee to him. 

But he must convince the dragon queen of the threat to the North. Somehow. He knows they cannot defeat them without her. But he does not trust any of the dragon queen’s men. He wants to ban them from accompanying him on his mission, but to do that would stroke more suspicion. 

And so he lets them come, but the dragon queen must save them all. His stomach rolls. He does not like being in debt, and now the Wall is destroyed, and the army of the dead can march south. 

The army of the dead is coming for his family, is coming for _ Sansa, _and now they have a dragon. They have a dragon, and he owes the dragon queen a debt. 

(a lannister always pays his debts)

When he shows the wight to the dragon queen, the smile, the smug look that has always been on her face slips off for once, and naked fear is seen in her eyes. 

Daenerys swallows. “Well then, Jon Snow. It seems you need my help. But I remind you once more, you must bend the knee.” She leans forward. “My armies can defend themselves against this threat, and yours cannot.” 

He suddenly sees that he has painted himself into a corner, but raises his chin all the same. “You must protect the people of the land you wish to rule.” 

She nods. “Of course I will. I just wonder how long we must delay here as their armies march south. The longer we delay, the longer we put everyone in Westeros at risk.” 

Ygritte might have told him he knows nothing, but Jon hears what she is saying. The dragon queen will let the entire North die, will let _ Sansa _die, before she helps Jon. Not without him bending the knee. 

(love is the death of duty)

But even as he sinks on to one knee, swears fealty to Daenerys, he cannot help but feel as though he is betraying every part of himself that is true. He may be half fire, but that fire was extinguished long ago, and all that remains is ice. 

He is betraying Sansa, and the thought makes him want to die. 

But he would die, to protect her, and he cannot allow the dragon queen to threaten his family. He will accept her help, but only so he can watch her. 

He thinks, in another lifetime, she would have been easy to love, before war hardened her, before she became more dragon than girl. 

Sansa may have been the one raised by lions, but he is the crow living amongst the wildlings. He broke all the vows he made to protect those he loves, and he would do it all over again. 

If he must break every vow he has ever made to protect Sansa, so be it. 

**xvi. the anger of arya stark**

“What do you _ mean _ you let Jon go talk to the dragon queen? You know what she could do to him! What happens if she finds out who he is?” 

Despite having revealed Jon’s parentage, Arya still thinks of him as a Stark. He _ is _a Stark, no matter who his blood father is. Stark blood flows in his veins, and he has lived in Winterfell for over half his life. He is as much Stark as her. 

“I know, Arya. But I could not refuse her.” 

“Why, Sansa?” It suddenly occurs to her Arya does not know anything of what happened to her. That she does not know what Littlefinger did, how he touched her and kissed her, and that his very presence in the halls of Winterfell sends chills down her spine. It suddenly occurs to her that Arya does not know of Tyrion, of Ramsay, of the battle and the bloodshed. 

Arya may have been the lone wolf all these years, but Sansa was the one who watched as they cut off her father’s head. His blood is on her hands, and she has not washed herself of it to remind herself of the debt that remains unpaid. 

She is the wolf among lions, and she always pays her debts. 

A smile crosses her face. No one can protect her. But maybe Arya can come close.

“Ramsay Snow, the Bolton bastard. I was married to him. I was raped by him.” 

Arya’s Stark grey eyes widen. “Sansa,” she breathes. 

She closes her eyes. Her sister is the strongest person she knows, and she cannot bear to see her pity. “He would take me into my old chambers, every night. Rape me on the bed that I used to sleep on when I was a girl. She presses a hand to her throat. “He cut my soulmate’s name so many times you can barely see it on my skin.” 

She opens her eyes to find Arya standing up. “I should have added his name to my list. I should have killed Roose Bolton at the Red Wedding, so he could never help his son lay a finger on you,” she spits. She watches as Arya realizes. “I should kill Littlefinger this second, for selling you like that, just so he could get Winterfell. All because he wanted Mother.” Her sister moves towards the door, and panic sets in for Sansa. 

“Arya,” she says softly. Her sister stops. Looks at her. “I want to kill him as well. But we must be smart about this. We must not let him defeat us.” She pauses, tasting the words she is about to speak on her tongue. “I am not sure who I would be without all that has happened to me.” She laughs bitterly. “Perhaps that same girl who thought of all knights as brave and all ladies as good. Who believed that no one would ever do each other harm.” 

“There was nothing wrong with that girl, Sansa.” Arya sits next to her, forces her to look her in the eyes. “I was a fool, thinking that you were silly for believing in such stories. You were smarter than the rest of us.” 

She lets out a watery laugh. “If only that were true, Arya. I cannot say for sure how I feel about all that happened to me. If I could go back to before we left Winterfell, before Father and Mother and Robb died, I would. In a heartbeat I would. I wish I was that silly girl. but since I cannot, I must endure. I must learn to live with what has happened to me.” Her voice turns hard. “If I let them control me, then they win. And I am tired of letting men win me. They will not control me any longer. I am a Stark, and because they think I am a Lannister and a Bolton, a Baelish bastard, they forget that. I am the daughter of the strongest Starks, and I must find a way to stay strong.”

“You don’t always have to be strong, Sansa. It took me a long time to realize that.” 

And then she is crying, and her sister is holding her, but for the first time in _ years _ it is like this weight has been lifted off her chest. Arya may never have gone through what she went through, but she is strong all the same, and she understands. 

“I couldn’t have survived what you did,” Arya admits. 

“You would have,” she says. “I would never have been able to survive what you did, though.” 

“You would have,” Arya says. She looks at her sister, and understanding passes between them. They are the daughters of Eddard Stark, the heirs to Winterfell. They have more north blood in their veins than all the men out there, and they will bare their teeth at anyone who threatens their family. 

Arya is the Warrior, and Sansa the Maiden, and the old gods watch over them. 

There may have been dragons, and there may be lions, but the time for wolves will come. The both of them know this. 

And so the sisters Stark lock eyes. They are the only ones who can protect each other, and they will do so to their last breath. 

Like their mother used to say, they are the sun and moon. Different as night and day, but inexplicably tied together. You cannot have one without the other, and you love them more for being a pair. 

They are the sun and moon, the rulers of the little universe they have created. 

They may be different, a lady and a warrior, but they both have teeth, and know how to use them. 

**xvii. the voyage of the false queen**

The waves slap against the side of the boat, and he cannot help but feel a shiver run down his spine. 

He had been held captive at Dragonstone, and now he sails for Winterfell having bent the knee. He has betrayed the person in the world who means the most to him, the person who holds half his heart, and the whole of his future. 

There have always been vows that taste false on his tongue, but now every breath he takes feels like he is cheating death. 

Daenerys comes to stand next to him. Her dragons, the two of them, soar far above. He doesn’t feel any more pull to them than he does a squirrel. 

There is not the connection he shares with Ghost. His soul has always been wolf, and he has never been more proud of that fact. 

“I’m glad you were able to see sense, Jon Snow. Bending the knee was the best thing to have done. You likely have saved many lives.” 

He bites his tongue. Likely have saved many lives because she put them in danger in the first place. He hates this part of her, this superiority she feels she holds. Just because she holds dragons does not mean she holds the world. 

(he cannot help think of elia martell, who survived a nest of vipers with ease, and who dragons should never have touched)

He inclines his head. “Thank you.” He has not yet addressed her. He refuses to address anyone but Sansa as his queen. “We should reach Winterfell in a few weeks,” he murmurs. “We are almost at the shore, and then we walk inland.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “You forget who you are traveling with. We do not need to walk.” 

“Wonderful idea. Riding in on a dragon, striking fear into the hearts of your future subjects before they even have a chance to know you. I believe that was how Joffrey ruled. You know, if you want to follow his example.”

She regards his advice with the same careful detachment she views everything else. The things the Imp says to her, the way Varys talks to her. She seems to have no inclination to listen to anyone but herself. 

That is an admirable quality, Jon thinks, in a warrior. A foolish one in a leader. 

“Do not do it, Daenerys. You’ll only scare them off.” 

She smiles then, all teeth. “Perhaps. I cannot say that that fact disinclines me from doing so all that much. The people must know their queen cannot be trifled with. It was that belief that drove the usurper off the throne, plunged a sword into my father’s back. The Targaryens were only overthrown because they were no longer dragons.” 

She looks to the sky, watches as the large, red one shrieks. “I am a dragon, and my time has come.” 

Even as she says these words, he cannot help but barely stifle a grimace. The dragon queen seems so focused on the future, she forgets her past. 

The time for dragons is over. And to try and bring it back seems more foolish than brave.

**interlude one**

Daenerys is sure that the bastard will see her ways. He still stands there, with the set of his jaw tight. 

It’s a rather nice jaw, she thinks. She wonders how long it will take for him to come to her bed. 

She purses her lips and taps her fingers against the wood of the ship. She wonders how Daario is doing back in Meereen. She hopes he has not let the city fall back into the slaver’s hands. While she is sure nobody should be enslaved, if the people want to let themselves be taken hostage, there is not much she can do about it. But she is the Breaker of Chains, and it would not do well if she cannot maintain that. 

Her fingers curl into fists. She has heard reports of the Northern queen, of course. Jorah still holds some loyalty in his old house, and servants still send Varys details on what happens in Winterfell. 

Apparently, Sansa Stark has concerned herself with food shortages and grain records. Daenerys’s lip curls in disgust. The Northern queen has no right to hope for independence. She is not like her half-brother, proficient with a sword. She is not like Daenerys, who rides a dragon, a weapon of mass destruction, who can cut down armies with a wave of her hand. She is not even like Tyrion, with wealth and connections and a shrewd mind. 

Sansa Stark is nothing more than a girl desperate to hold on to what little power she has left, and Daenerys will not let anyone treat her with such disrespect. 

She is the rightful ruler of Westeros, and of the North. Who cares about the Starks of Winterfell?

**xviii. the vengeance of catelyn stark**

When Sansa calls Baelish to her hall, she must physically bite her tongue to stop herself from giving the order to kill him. 

She bitterly thinks, about how this man has stolen so much from her. How he had sold her to the Boltons and condemned her father, the one man in her life she had been able to trust. How he had lusted after her mother so much, lusted after _ her _ so much. How he had stripped everything away from her family, slowly. 

She smiles instead. “Lord Baelish. I thank you for your prompt arrival.” 

“My lady,” he bows. Her smile turns a little sharper. “Is there a reason you called for me?” Lord, he is so simpering, Sansa finds it difficult to remember why she had ever thought this man intelligent. All he knows is how to play the game. 

And she has changed the rules. 

The northern lords look at her with mild contempt in their eyes. They believe she trusts this man, that this man controls her. The Lady Bolton whispers persist. Some even call her Baelish bastard. But the most prominent are those who call her Lady Lannister, especially because they think she has become cold, she has become like Cersei. The Lady Lannister whispers persist, and as Sansa looks at Baelish, she knows he only encourages them. Fine. Let them call her a Lannister. Baelish expects Cersei, but Sansa, Sansa will be Tywin. 

“I was wondering about something, Lord Baelish, and I knew that you would be the most helpful person in assisting me in getting an answer.”

Baelish smiles even wider at this. She knows he had worried about losing her trust after the Bolton bastard. He thinks he has regained it, regained power over her. What she doesn’t tell him is that he lost it long ago. “Of course, Sansa. I would be happy to help you in anyway that I can. I serve at your pleasure.” 

She folds her hands in front of her, straightens her back into a lady’s posture, like her mother had told her long ago. “I am pleased to hear you say that, Lord Baelish. There’s a traitor within these halls, and I was wondering if you could help me figure out what a worthy punishment for them would be.” 

His eyes scan the hall. He sees Arya, and various northmen sitting, but no one else. When his eyes fall on her sister again, the corner of his lips turn up in a smile. Perfect. “Tell me who they are, my lady, and we will see to it that they suffer for their crimes against your family.” 

“I think I should list their crimes first, if you don’t mind.” He nods. “Of course, they have plotted against my family. Harmed the court of Winterfell deeply. They have betrayed my trust. They have lead to the downfall and harm of the people of the people I love. They have threatened my position as the Lady of Winterfell.” She is looking at Arya the entire time she speaks, and thankfully Baelish is looking at her instead of her sister, because Arya’s lips are turned up in a smile and her hand rests on her dagger. 

“But, of course, the most important. They have lied to me.” She looks to Baelish. “I consider this treason of the highest order. What do you propose we do with such a person?” 

Baelish’s lips thin into a vicious smile. “Why, I can think of no punishment but death, of course, my lady. Anyone who brings harm upon you, and your family deserves such a horrid fate.” 

She smiles. She unfolds her hands and clutches the sides of her chair. “I wholeheartedly agree. Thank you for helping me see the truth, Lord Baelish.”

“My pleasure, Lady Sansa.” 

“I think I shall sentence the traitor right here and now.” She pauses, relishing the gleeful look on his face. He does not know what is happening. She will savor this moment for the rest of her life. “Arya.” Her sister steps forward. “Do you accept the task I have given you?” 

Arya’s smile turns wolfish. For a second, Sansa is fiercely reminded of their mother, how she protected their pack to her dying breath, how she would have rather burnt alive than see any harm befall her family. 

“With pleasure, my lady.” 

“Lord Baelish, for your crimes against House Stark, my father, Eddard Stark, my mother, Catelyn Stark, I, Sansa Stark, and the rest of my family, I, Sansa of House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, sentence you to death.” 

Littlefinger’s smile slips from his lips, and naked shock and fear is shown on his face. “Sansa?” he whispers. “You have it wrong, Sansa.” He points to Arya. “She is the traitor. I would never do anything to harm you or your family. Please, believe me.” 

Something in her snaps at this, and she stands up. Walking towards him, she says, “Never do anything to harm my family? What do you call betraying my father, Ned Stark, when he came to you for help with uncovering the Lannister incest? What do you call selling me off to the Bolton bastard, who abused and violated me? What do you call attempting to turn me against my own sister?"

“Please, Sansa, please.” Baelish has given up denying his crimes. This pleases her. “I would never. I love you, I loved your mother, Sansa, _ please. _”

She stops, stares at him. Arya kicks the back of his knees from behind, and he crumples to his knees, looking up at Sansa. Bending down, she drops her voice to a whisper, looks him in the eye. “It took me a long time to learn who you are, Petyr. I’m a slow learner, it’s true. But I learn. You call love harming the people I care about the most? You call love tearing my mother away from the one man she truly loved? You call love selling me to someone who raped me, who treated me like a piece of meat?” She laughs bitterly. “The only thing you love, Petyr, is power. Power and chaos.” 

He whimpers one more time. “Please, Sansa.” 

She stands back up. “Never call me that again. Do not ever think that I care about what happens to you.” She smiles, and she knows her eyes are cold. “Arya, please.” 

She watches as her sister steps forward to the kneeling man, jerks Baelish’s head backwards. Arya presses the blade his dagger against his throat. “Any last words?” she hisses. 

“I beg you, please have mercy!” 

“Petyr, I have dreamed about this moment for years.” Sansa gives a nod. “You will find no mercy from me.”

Arya draws the blade across his throat, and she watches as the blood spurts out from his neck. It splatters across the hall, and she thinks they should have someone clean that up so no one slips on it. Her second thought is one of overwhelming relief, and happiness. 

His blood is stained all over her hands, and she will have no trouble washing it off. 

**xix. the first king who bent the knee**

They sail for King’s Landing, to show the Lannister Queen the wights, to convince her to lend them her forces. Tyrion somehow thinks he will be able to.

“Torrhen Stark was the last King in the North before you, and he bent the knee because he understood what would happen if he didn’t. Do not look so sad, Jon Snow. It was the right decision to make.” 

His hands tighten into fists at his sides, and he must take in a few deep breaths before he can speak again. Across from him, Daenerys smiles coldly, and he knows she is aware of the effect she has on him. 

“Your Westerosi history is lacking, your grace,” he says. “The last King in the North was Robb Stark, my brother. Perhaps you should become more acquainted with the lands you are sailing to before you hope to rule them.” 

Tyrion watches him from the corner of his eye. Jon tries not to let the opinions of the Imp bother him much. He comes from the most disgraced family in the Seven Kingdoms, and he himself has had a hand in that disgrace. Plus, to him, any man who fails to stand up to a leader in time of need is a coward. 

“What makes you so sure I do not know the lands of which I am to rule?”

He decides to hold his tongue, for once. She will learn, sooner or later, he thinks. She must. 

Instead, he turns to her, offers her a strained smile. “I never said you didn’t know them, your grace. Just that learning more about your people could never hurt.” 

“Hmm.” She purses her lips and studies him, but he is used to being scrutinized by sharp women, and so he does not flinch. “Yes, I rather do like learning more about people. It is so very interesting to see what drives them. I’ve discovered plenty of men find themselves only driven by lust. Women are much more interesting.” She glances at him. “What do you think?” 

He’s gotten sharper over the years, and only a fool would have to miss how the queen looks at him right now, like he is a piece of meat for her pleasure. He is sure as beautiful a woman as herself must have had plenty of lovers, and he does not care. 

“I believe our hearts have much to say about us, your grace.” He flicks a glance over to her. “Do you hold a name above your heart?”

Daenerys’s white hair whips in the wind, pale. Her face tightens, and he sees her first genuine emotion, sadness, slip through. “I am unmarked,” she says softly. “I wonder if my life would have been easier or more difficult had I been marked. I will never know.” 

He’s trying not to, but he can sympathize with her. “I am marked. But I cannot be with the person whose name I hold on my chest. Trust me, your grace, when I say soulmates only bring suffering.”

**xx. the name above her heart**

She asks Sam, when things are beginning to quiet down in the wake of Baelish.

“Why is it Jon Snow, above my heart, instead of his Targaryen name?”

Sam frowns. “I don’t know.” He offers her a soft smile, and she loves him, the best friend of her soulmate, his brother, who had protected him throughout so much. “Perhaps because Jon Snow is your soulmate, who he is to you. Maybe that _ is _ his true identity, who he was always meant to be.”

**xxi. the seduction of the king**

He does it because he has nothing left. 

Daenerys is very clear about what she wants, something he finds almost refreshing after the endless complexity that is Sansa Stark. 

(he thinks he could stare at her for years and would not come close to scratching the surface. he loves and hates it) 

But Daenerys wants him, and although he is marked, and she is not, he thinks that it might be better for everyone as a whole. She is not his soulmate, and she will never be, but his soulmate will not want anything to do with him, once she finds out what he has done. If Sansa does not already hate him, she will, and he cannot bear that thought. 

Fucking Daenerys helps, if only to take him mind away from his sister, no, his cousin. She is passionate, like fire, and she expects him to be like ice. He does not mind. Being like ice is the only way he can get through this. 

There is a part of him that is disgusted he has fucked his aunt, but his soulmate is his cousin, so no one is judging anyways 

He tells her of his parentage late one night, and she reacts how he expected her to, shock, betrayal. 

“I should kill you right now,” she says, voice thrumming with anger. “You will take my throne from me. That is why you lay with me, right?” 

He shakes his head. “Never. To do that would put Winterfell at risk. I will never put the Starks at risk.” 

She calms down after that, and soon accepts it. He understands that her parents had been brother and sister, so she does not understand that their relations are unnatural. In fact, she seems gleeful that he is a Targaryen. 

“Only someone from my family could break the curse on my womb,” she whispers once night, after they have both peaked and he is dressing. He turns to look at her, horror written all over his face. 

“What?” 

She smiles at him, hair strewn on the bed. “We will rule the realm together, then. Two Targaryens. And you will give me heirs.” 

He shakes his head. “No, Daenerys. I will not.” Her eyes dim. “I will never take your throne, but my place is not in the South. It is in Winterfell.” Waiting for the Lannister army promised by the queen, preparing for the war. Protecting Sansa, staying by her side.

Before she can say anything else, he is gone, with the ghost of who he was left behind. 

**xxii. the betrayal of the lady of winterfell**

She will not cry. She cannot cry. Not only because she must not show weakness, but because she doesn't even remember how to. 

She can feel pain, though, even if she wishes she could not. 

This is true pain, the whiplash agony of being rejected by your soulmate. It is like burning, but not from fire, from ice, burning so hot you can scarcely breathe. 

She holds the letter from Jon in her hands, and she notes it has the Targaryen seal on it, not the Stark one. The thought sends waves of agony coursing through her body, and it is all she can do to not collapse. He talks of her in reverent tones, tells her how impressive her dragons are, how much they need her help to defeat the Night King, the Dead. How he had bent the knee to save their lives. 

She crumples it in her hands, Betrayal is part of her life now. She thinks she would have rather died than feel this pain. She had never truly had Jon, has never truly had him, but it feels like she has lost him all the same. 

Arya finds her like that, paper still clutched in her hand, staring off into space. 

“Sansa?” she says, gentler than she normally is. “What is that?” 

Wordlessly, she hands her sister the letter. Arya reads it quickly, and gasps. “Oh, Sansa.” 

“Robb and Mother _ died _ for the North to be independent, Arya,” she forces out. “And then because Jon Snow goes and falls in love with the Targaryen queen, he bends the knee. Says it was to save us all.” 

Arya looks at her. Sansa thinks she is incapable of being angry at Jon, but this is the closest thing she has ever seen to anger at her brother. “Sansa, be honest with me. What is wrong?” 

Her hand shakes, and she presses it to her throat. She closes her eyes tightly, wills the gathered tears there to not fall. 

“Jon’s name is my mark,” she says. She hears Arya’s sharp intake of breath. “Ever since Baelish stole me away from King’s Landing, his name has been above my heart. And now he has gone and fallen in love with the Dragon Queen. Bent the knee. Done the one thing I asked him not to do.” 

She must be desperate, because she feels the gentle touch of Arya’s hand on hers. Arya is all sharp angles and hard lines, not kind words of encouragement. But her sister is here, and suddenly, she can breathe just a little bit easier. “You haven’t kissed him yet, have you?” She shakes her head. 

“I wanted to protect him, from all the pain I could. He wanted the same. Our lives have been nothing but an endless cycle of pain, Arya.” Her hand grips the arm of her seat tightly. “I needed to protect him. I failed protecting everyone else.” 

Her eyes lock with her sister’s, their father and mother’s eyes, meeting once more. “I am the oldest remaining Stark, and I couldn’t protect my siblings.” She reaches a hand and strokes Arya’s cheek for a second. “You have a list of people you wish dead. Bran is gone, and I don’t know where. Rickon is dead. You are my younger siblings, and I should have protected you to my last breath. Mother died alongside Robb. I wish I had died with them.” 

“Sansa.” Arya grips her hand. “Sansa. You cannot blame yourself for everything. I wish I had died with Mother and Robb sometimes too. I miss them, so much it aches from some part deep inside me I can never heal again. I wish I hadn’t run away from Mother when she taught me how to be a lady. I would give anything for another hug of hers. But Sansa, can’t you _ see? _You took Winterfell back from the Boltons. You figured out Littlefinger’s treachery. You brought the Knights of the Vale. You have saved us all, so many times over.” 

“Arya,” her voice breaks. “He loves her.” 

“He loves you,” Arya says quietly. “Any fool can see it. You two were meant to rule together, to be in charge of the North together. You are like Father and Mother. You are both wolves.” 

She laughs through wetness. “Oh Arya, he is a dragon.” 

Her sister shakes her head. “He may have been born a dragon, but he was also born as a wolf. It is the time for wolves, Sansa, and only a wolf protects those he loves as Jon does. And even if he loves her, who cares?” Her sister smiles, sharp. “You are the strongest person I know, and you are much better than him. You will survive this. You don’t need anyone.” Arya smiles bitterly. “That’s me. I need you.”

Her heart cannot take it anymore, and she hugs her sister, clutching her closely to her chest. “Arya, that isn’t true at all. I need you. You are the only person I need.” She knows now, with a stunning sort of clarity, this is her truest love. Jon may be her soulmate, but Arya is her other half, the other part of her heart, the person she has been looking for her entire life. 

They have saved each other dozens of times over, and after all Jon has done, Arya is her truest sibling, the truest Stark. She would die before letting any harm befell her sister.

**xxiii. the death of elia martell**

He wakes of dreams of men burning alive, dying. 

Stumbling to the side of the ship, he vomits into the ocean, and then sits, feels the salt water spray onto his face. He touches the scar on his face, long. It itches sometimes, but not often. 

He thinks of Elia Martell. Sansa had told him stories of Oberyn, how determined he had been to get justice for his sister. How kind she had been. How beautiful and sweet. 

He has never hated his father more than in this moment. Elia Martell died because of Rhaegar Targaryen’s obsession with a foolish prophecy, his desperation to have three children. He doesn’t even know if Lyanna wanted to go with Rhaegar. 

But what he does know is that his father’s greed and lust doomed an innocent woman and her two children. And that no one, save for Oberyn, remembers what Elia went through at the hands of the Targaryens.

He has never been more angry in his life. From what he has seen, Daenerys is far too similar to Aerys. He thinks of what has haunted him for the past week, Sam’s brother and father. He hates Sam’s father, for what he did to his best friend, one of the best men Jon has ever known. 

But he knows better than anyone the sting of losing a father, the sting of losing a brother. You will never recover. Some things just break, and can’t be put back together. 

It wasn’t just Elia who suffered at the hands of the Targaryens. His grandfather, his uncle, both died, burnt alive because of Aerys, because of Rhaegar, because of the pride that was the downfall of the dragons. All for a goddamn throne that was far more trouble than it was worth, forged in a dragon’s breath. All for a throne that never protected a single one of its subjects. All for a throne that was worth less to him than Ned Stark’s head. 

He thinks of Daenerys. He thinks she is far more alike her father than she wants to be, burning men alive without a second thought because they refused to bend the knee. He will never understand her dragons. 

Soldiers die in battle, and that is a part of life. They deserve to have the chance to fight, not be burnt alive by dragons, not given a second thought. He can remember every single person whose life he has stolen, in pursuit of something. If you must take a life, look the person in the eyes while you do it. 

Jon’s jaw tightens. Remembers the stories of little Aegon’s skull smashed in, Rhaenys, stabbed too many times to count. Elia, raped and murdered. 

He clenches his fist. Oberyn will not be the last person seeking justice for Elia. He will as well. Elia Martell will not be forgotten. 

Let it be known that the Targaryens were cruel, were terrible. Elia Martell was of the sun, and she and her children deserved better. 

He looks at the sea, thinks of half-siblings he never had the chance to learn about. Thinks about kindness and wolves and the bright blue sky, with the shining sun in it. 

The night sky winks at him, stars shining above. 

For Elia Martell. For her innocent children, killed by the Mountain. Who died because of the pursuit of power, who died because Rhaegar was obsessed with the prophecy. The throne has killed so many. Blood has spilled in its pursuit, even the blood of children. 

He will never be a Targaryen. He rejects everything about that name. He will forever be a Stark, forever be tied through his mother’s blood and his true father’s love. Will forever be tied through nights at Winterfell and the name above his heart. 

He is a Stark, but he must pretend to be a Targaryen. He is nowhere near as smart as Sansa. But he will play the game, if only to protect her. If only to avenge Elia. If only to convince Daenerys. 

**xxiv. the three-eyed raven**

When Bran finally returns to Winterfell, assisted by Meera Reed, she hugs him tightly. But he is not her little brother, all quiet and pensive. She struggles to find the Bran who could barely shoot a bow and arrow, the one who climbed all over the place, the one who was closest to Rickon. 

This Bran is something called the _ three-eyed raven, _and perhaps she has been too selfish, as her family has been returned to her, one by one, but she cannot help but long for the boy who used to be her little brother. 

Family has taken on a whole new meaning for her, and she regrets, more than anything, not cherishing what she had while she had it. 

Bran looks at her, eyes wide. For a split second, the boy he used to be breaks through, and he says softly, “He still loves you.” 

She smiles, and shakes her head. Let Bran believe what he wants to believe. 

Jon Snow does not love her, but her little brother is back, and even if he is not the boy she remembers, none of them are the Starks she remembers, and that is alright. She will love her family all the same. 

There is nothing they could do to take her love away, and even if Bran is now a raven instead of a wolf, there will forever be wolf blood in his veins.

**xxv. the reunion of the starks**

At first, he only has eyes for Sansa. She greets him with a cold, impolite smile, the same one she gives to all the lords who annoy her. He hates that he is on the receiving end of it. 

But then his eyes shift, catch two heads he never expected to see, and he lets out a breath that feels like he has been holding in for seven years. “Seven hells.” 

And then he is rushing forward, and so is she, and Arya slams into him, wrapping her arms around him so tightly that he can barely breathe. He does not care. His hands shifts up to the back of her head, and he tucks his nose into her hair, hugging her tightly enough so that he will never have to worry about losing her again. 

It seems like she stays there hugging him for far too short, but she clearly has a smarter mind than he, because she steps away. “Welcome back, brother,” she whispers, a smile on her face. Her hand drifts down to wrap around Needle, and he laughs when he sees it, joy bubbling up in the back of his throat.

“You still have this?” 

“Fought my way across the entire country to get it back once.” His smile dims at this. Arya had always been quick and nimble, fierce, but he hates the idea of his little sister killing people. Even if he knows she is only standing here because of it. 

“We will talk more later,” he mutters, stepping away from her. 

His eyes lock on Bran’s, behind Arya, and his face breaks out in another smile. “Bran!” 

Bran, so unlike the boy he used to be, simply gives Jon a nod. “Welcome home, Jon Snow.” 

Jon hugs him tightly, and shoots Sansa a confused look. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, and he resolves to ask her more about this when he no longer has the dragon queen’s army at his back. 

He turns to Sansa. “Sansa, this is Daenerys.” 

Daenerys gives Sansa the same sharp smile she had given him when he had first met her. “Lady Sansa. I thank you for your hospitality. I hope we can count on your support in the coming war.”

Sansa gives her a smile, and he can see just how much sweetness she packs behind it. But her eyes are cold, and he does not know how she plays the game better than almost anyone else he knows. “Winterfell is yours, your grace.” 

There is just the smallest touch of steel behind those words, and he feels a shiver run down his spine. For the first time, he thinks Daenerys may have truly met her match. 

Daenerys nods, and quickly, Sansa begins delegating, finding rooms for her soldiers, places for her people to rest their heads. They need every single able body in this war, and he is so very thankful for Sansa’s extreme obsession with grain storages when they suddenly have thousands more mouths to feed. 

Arya watches from every corner, he soon realizes, out of the corner of his eye. She always has one eye on Sansa, even as she helps with other work, even as she meets a blacksmith with whom she has far too much comfort with for Jon’s liking. The thought, however, sends a rush of warmth throughout his body. Sansa has at least one person looking out for her, who will put her above all else. 

But at the same time it burns him, rips him apart from the inside out. Jon has never felt this before, this whiplash agony of rejection, this horror, like a hot knife cutting through skin. Sansa ignores him, and it becomes almost more than he can stand. 

She finds him, one day, Ghost by his side, in the room where they have been planning their offensive. She sweeps in, all skirts and steel and ice cold eyes. “Hello, Jon.” 

He glances up, throat dry at the sight of her. “Sansa.” Ghost immediately plops over to her, and she crouches and laughs lightly, petting his soft fur as the dog nuzzles into her side. The smile slips off her face as she stands up and walks toward the table. 

She looks at the map, trailing her fingers over it. She ignores him, and instead, says, “I’m sure you are glad to see Arya and Bran back in Winterfell.” 

He nods slowly. Arya has explained to him about Bran, and although he does not know what a three-eyed raven is, this is who his little brother is now, and he must accept that. 

“I know how close you were to Arya.” 

He cracks a small smile. “Not as close as you, apparently. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of you since the dragon queen got here. I’m glad she’s protecting you.” 

Sansa looks up, meeting his gaze for the first time in weeks. “She is my sister, Jon. Not like she is your sister. There is a bond between us no one will ever be able to break. She is my other half, the person I have been waiting for my whole life.” Her smile twists bitterly. “She taught me how to love myself, and I will always put her above my own life, every time.” 

He nods. “I know.” He drops his eyes to the map, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. “Sansa, I’m sorry.” 

“For what, Jon?” Her voice is cold, but also tired. “For what? Bending the knee? Throwing away the cause that Robb and Mother died for? For doing the one thing I asked you not to do?” She looks at him, and he sees that her eyes are unnaturally bright, and she is trying not to cry. 

“Sansa,” he says once more, reaching out to her.

She steps back and holds up a hand. “Say no more, Jon. Tell me, did you bend the knee to save the North, or because you love her?” 

He is struck speechless, and can only open and close his mouth like a fish. _ I don’t love her, _ he wants to shout. _ I could never love anyone but you, not since Castle Black, not since your name appeared on my chest when I was 16. Gods, I love you so much I feel I will go mad because of it. I love you, I love you, I love you. _

But he doesn’t say any of this. He cannot. Sansa is smarter than him, for sure, but he remembers how Daenerys had threatened her, and if there is one thing that Sansa doesn’t need right now, it is another thing to worry about. 

He stays stubbornly silent, and for the first time in years, almost since Ramsey, Sansa’s entire face crumples. “How could you?” she whispers. “I have seen you suffer under cruel kings.” She laughs, dryly. “You were aware of how much Robb won, correct? How they called him the Young Wolf, how he soundly defeated the Lannister armies, again and again?”

He can only nod, numb. “I wonder if you knew every time Robb won, Joffrey had me beat.” she looks at him, anger in her blue Tully eyes. “I bled for the North, Jon,” she spits. “I bled for the North dozens of times, and I love it so much I will bleed for it hundreds of times over. We deserve to be on our own. Don’t you remember what happened the last time a Targaryen came North?” 

The words strike far too close to home, and Jon himself is a product of that. But Sansa is not just angry, she is vicious. Sansa may be all wolf, but she knows how to maul like a lioness as well. 

“Our grandfather and uncle, executed because your father stole away your mother.” Sansa closes her eyes. “I do not blame you for what they did. But I know you as a man, Jon. I know you would wish to remember Elia Martell, who was murdered because of your father’s actions. Their love led to Robert’s Rebellion. How many people died?”

“She is a good queen, Sansa,” he says feebly. 

Sansa’s eyes flash. “They said Aerys was a good king in the beginning as well. Tell me, Jon, is she truly a good queen?” 

He’s speechless. “You knew about the slaves across the Narrow Sea,” Sansa continues, “right? Did you know _ how _ she broke the chains? It’s wonderful that she did. No man, woman, or child should have to spend their lives in shackles, that is wrong. But she never rebuilt. She never figured out a way to save those people from falling into poverty. Those cities used to be wealthy, and yes, wealth built on the backs of slaves is false, but she could have _ used _ that wealth. She offered nothing for the newly freed, no way for them to rebuild their lives, and she only kept the cities under control because of her dragons.” Her face is flushed in anger, but some of that fades away as understanding begins to dawn on her. “You have no idea, do you?” 

He truly does not, and he can tell this only makes her more angry. “Do you even understand the amount of rebuilding I have had to do in the wake of the Boltons taking the North?” she shouts, stalking towards him and pushing him back. He lets himself be pushed, the savage anger in her eyes chilling him. “I had to rebuild the North from the ground up with my own hands, Jon,” she says, turning away as her voice breaks. 

“I had to build the North from the ground up as the only person I trusted was off gallivanting with the dragon queen.” Sansa presses a hand to her head. “Tell me, Jon, now that you’ve fucked her, do you get to ride her dragons? Do you feel that dragon blood in you stirring?” 

“Sansa, please,” he implores. He has no idea what to say to this woman in front of him, full of ferocity. 

She straightens her back. “She burned khalasars, Jon. When they wouldn’t join her. Who does that sound like?” 

Jon looks at the floor. “She burned Sam’s father, and brother, because they wouldn’t bend the knee. She refused to take them as prisoners of war. Tyrion told me. Because they were so unwilling to bend the knee.” Sansa says. His lack of surprise must give something away, because she walks forward, lifts his chin to look him in the eyes. “He is your best friend, Jon. Your sworn brother, a man who has bled for you, who has fought for you, and you lie to him like this. You hide this from him.” 

Sansa steps back then, looks him in the eye. “I know she has dragons. I know you think we need her. But she will never be my queen, Jon.” She takes a scroll out of her sleeve, tosses it to him.

“Five houses have withdrawn their support in the War of the Dead.” 

“What!” He unravels it. “They pledged it at the meeting! They said they would fight for me for the next thousand years.” 

She regards him coolly. “Do you truly know nothing, Jon?” He knows she means to hurt, but that knowledge doesn’t mean the words sting any less. “They pledged their forces to King Jon, not Lord Jon, and so when you bent the knee, you turned your back on them. You betrayed them.”

“We must write to them at once!” 

Sansa shakes her head. “No, Jon, I will not. I know we need every able man in this war, but this is your mistake. You bent the knee to a queen who surrounds herself with sycophants, who would burn anyone who tried to stand against her. I am not convinced the Lannister army is coming either. But understand something, Jon. You betrayed me, by bending the knee. These men deserve to be independent. I cannot find it in myself to be angry at them for taking the exact action I would have as well.” 

She walks over to the door, looking back at him once. “I love you, Jon. I cannot trust you. You have betrayed me, and I still am having trouble understanding how you, one of the truest men I have ever known, found it in your heart to do so.” 

She leaves then, Ghost following her, the slam of the door final. 

Jon punches the wall, and the skin over his knuckles breaks. He cradles it, before groaning and dropping to the ground, his head in his hands. “Sansa,” he whispers, but to what, he does not know. “Forgive me. _ Please. _” 

**xxvi. the broken heart in the snow**

As soon as she reaches her room, Sansa takes in a shuddering breath, gasping. It is like her dress is too tight, despite the fact that she had sewn it herself and she knows it is perfect. Everything around her begins to cave in, becomes too much. 

There is too much light, and noise, and she needs to be alone. She needs to be somewhere where she can breathe. 

She grabs her cloak and flees to the godswood. 

It is difficult, stealing away, especially as the lady of Winterfell, but she manages. She sits at the base of the godswood, and runs her fingers through the snow. It is absolutely perfect, soft and pure white. 

The red leaves of the weirwood stand out against the pale, pale world. She sits, and traces her fingers over the same stone her father sat on whenever he sharpened his sword. 

She does not know what to do, only that whatever is left of her heart is shattered, is gone and leaking blood out onto the snow white ground. She would not be surprised to see drops of blood oozing from her heart if she glanced at her chest. 

The crunch of boots on snow causes her to whip her head around, suddenly fearful with the dragon queen’s entire army here. But it is only Brienne, who inclines her head. “Lady Sansa.” 

She manages to put a smile on her face, albeit small, but all of it is genuine. “Lady Brienne. Please, come sit.” Brienne lumbers forward, awkward as ever, taking a seat next to Sansa. 

“My lady, are you alright?” Brienne says, softer than Sansa would have thought possible. It occurs to her that she had thought the same thing about Arya. It would never shock her, the capacity warriors had for kindness, especially in the middle of war.

She shakes her head. “He brought the dragon queen, Brienne. He bent the knee to her, and he brought her because he loves her. He wanted to be by her side,” she chokes out. Brienne does not say a word, just regards her with those beautiful, bright blue eyes. 

She is silent, but more than anything, she is patient. And Sansa is more thankful than she can begin to show. She simply waits for Sansa to continue. “Jon’s name,” she begins. “It is above my heart.” She spares a look at Brienne, and the only indication she heard her is the small blush making its way up her neck onto her face. 

She smiled. So very Brienne to get flustered at the talk of soulmates. “His name is above my heart, but I have not kissed him yet. I will never kiss him.” She turns to face Brienne fully. “I trust you, Brienne, and I am so glad you are here. You know just how much pain I have gone through, everything I had to suffer. I cannot bear to put him through that pain.” She pauses. “He seems more than content to put me through pain, though.” 

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne sighs, “are you sure he loves her?” 

“I asked him, Brienne. He didn’t deny it.” Sansa laughs, reaching a hand over to cover Brienne’s gloved hand with her own. “Why can’t all men be as honorable as you? You are the most honorable person I have known, save my father, and, well, Jon, I used to think.” 

Brienne looks at her, and speaks firmly. “Lady Sansa, I am unmarked.” It is not what Sansa had been expecting, and it takes her back slightly. “I have never had a name above my heart, and I doubt I ever will. But that is alright.” she squeezes Sansa’s hand. “I like to think that it allows me to choose even more so who I love. You call me honorable. I will not deny what my lady says, for once.” She blushes, looks down. “I know it is difficult, to love. But Jon is an honorable man. He is a man who loves his family. There must be a reason for what he has done. Please, Sansa. I know honor. He has more of it than almost anyone else I know.” 

“There is a reason, Brienne,” she cries. “He _ loves _ her! After just a few months, he loves her. And I cannot bear it. It is like my heart is being torn into two.” 

Brienne looks at her. “You are so like your lady mother, Sansa, sometimes I find it difficult to see the difference between you two. You can bear this, Sansa. _ You _ are the strongest, smartest person I know. I am honored to be your sworn sword.” 

She blinks back tears. “I am scared, Brienne.” The admission is quiet. She’s never said this before to anyone, not to Jon, Arya, no one. “I’m so scared. I don’t want to die.” 

“Oh Sansa.” Brienne smiles at her, a little sadly. “No one wants to die. And everyone is scared. You are alright. It is perfectly normal to be scared. The fight of our lives is coming soon. You are only human.” 

She looks at the godswood tree. “Did you know I tried as hard as I could to make myself southern?” she says, voice flat. “I rejected the way my mother did my hair, thought it too simple. I sewed my gowns to look like Cersei’s. I wanted to get away from Winterfell, away from the North, as fast as I could. It is one of the greatest regrets of my life. I should have never left Winterfell. I would rather die than leave here, now. I wish I had appreciated what I had while I still had it.”

Brienne nods. “That is the cruelty of the gods, my lady. They steal what we love away from us before we have a chance to realize what we possess. It is the absence of a thing that makes us love it more.” 

Sansa sighs. “Jon was the only thing I had left from my old life when I escaped Ramsey. Fleeing from Winterfell was one of the hardest, yet easiest things I ever had to do. I owe my life to Theon, and to you, for rescuing me.” 

Brienne inclines her head. “Any time, my lady. I meant it when I pledged my sword to you.”

She sighs. “If only all people kept their vows as you did.” She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Jon promised me he wouldn’t bend the knee. He knew what being independent meant to me. The North has done nothing but suffer, for hundreds of years under Targaryen rule. My grandfather, my uncle. My family suffered under Cersei and Joffrey, my father, mother, brother, all dead because of them. I have lost so much!” she snaps, angry tears streaming down her face. She wipes them away with the back of her hand. “I have lost so much to that _ stupid _ throne, with its _ stupid _ swords! And now Jon goes and bends the knee to a queen who is no different. Who only cares about the Iron Throne.”

Brienne seems to understand her distress, more than anyone else. “You will not lose him, Sansa.” 

“How can you say that, Brienne? Daenerys has shown she has no regard for whose lives are lost in her pursuit for the throne. If he perishes because of this, because she wants to rule…” she trails off, completely unable to finish even the thought. It sends waves of nausea through her. 

“He will not die, Sansa.” Brienne looks at her. “He has you to come back to. Jon will always, _ always _ come back to you. You are not just his soulmate. You are his family. And all honorable men love their families.” 

**xxvii. the honest truth**

Jon finds her in his room, pacing back and forth, dressed in furs, hair pulled tightly back and out of her face. 

“Arya.” He shuts the door behind him, pulling it closed softly. 

She whirls around, and strides forward. “Look, Jon. I don’t know what you did to Sansa, but the Warrior help me, I will kill you if you hurt her like that again.” 

“Hurt her?” he says blankly. He feels a punch in his gut. Sansa, hurt because of him was something he wanted to avoid, but couldn’t help happening, if he wanted to protect her. 

“Yes, hurt her,” Arya hisses, stalking forward. “Bringing the dragon queen here, with her blatant disrespect for Sansa. You and I both know she’s the smartest person we’ve ever met. She knows what Daenerys wants, and she’s not going to give it to her. Daenerys has no respect, Jon,” she yells, walking away from him and pacing around the room. “She doesn’t give a damn about the North. All she wants is your armies, and your name.” 

He shook his head. “No. She knows that if she lets the dead win, then everything she wants is lost.” 

Arya laughs, bitterly. “Jon, Daenerys wants you. She wants you, and she wants the Iron Throne. The only reason she came North was because you required it of her. She has her dragons, her armies. She does not need the North. She wants to take it. She wants Sansa to be indebted to her.” 

“Arya, please.” 

She looks at him. “Jon. I know.” He gapes at her, and she smiles at him sadly. “I know about your parents, and I know about your mark.” 

He sighs, and sits on the bed. “I’m assuming Sansa told you about both.” 

Arya nods. “She told me about Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna when she told me where you were.” She has the grace to look slightly ashamed. “I yelled at her, when I first found out she sent you to the dragon queen. But she sent you to not bend the knee. She was smart enough to realize that Daenerys was going to come either way. But that your refusal would make her leave us alone. But you bent the knee, Jon.” 

“Please, Arya. Sansa has told me about this.” 

She holds up a hand, stops him. “Jon, please. Sansa hasn’t been honest with you. Do you know what it was like for me, being separated from my family for years?” She looks at him. “I know you do. But I was a young girl, barely one and ten. It took me years, so many missed name days, before I learned how to defend myself. When I met the Faceless Men in Braavos, they asked me to forget who I was. I threw everything away but this.” 

She hands him Needle, lovingly drawing her fingers over the handle. “I couldn’t leave you behind. I couldn’t leave my family behind, not when I loved them so much.” 

She levels him with a look. “Sansa told me what happened to her with Ramsey, Jon. And so when I found her, shaking, holding a letter, I feared the worst, even if he was dead. I feared so much for her. I have not felt that kind of fear in years. And then I learned the letter was from my beloved brother, that he was the one who hurt my dear sister like so. She told me about her mark then.” 

Jon wants to leave, wants to flee from Arya’s painful words. But he owes this to her, to sit and listen.

“It is not your parentage that angers me, Jon.” Arya smiles at him, hugs him tightly, tucking her head into his shoulder. “You will forever be a Stark, Jon Snow,” she mutters, sound muffled by his jerkin. “You will forever be my brother. Ned Stark’s blood may not flow through your veins, but it is a Stark’s blood, nonetheless, and from what my father told me about Aunt Lyanna, she was more wolf than the rest of them anyways.” She draws back, still with a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Please don’t ever doubt you are a Stark, Jon. You are still my beloved brother. I am still your little sister.” 

Jon lets out a sigh. He smiles. “Thank you, Arya. I guess I just needed to hear it from someone. It is hard, when your entire existence has proven to be a lie. When you doubt everything about yourself.” It is like he can breathe again. It means more than she will ever know, knowing that those words spring from Arya’s lips. He had always thought of her as his truest sibling save Robb, and she is certainly the one who he sees the most of himself in. Once upon a time, he had thought her the truest Stark, the one with the most teeth. But he thinks back to Sansa, blue eyes alight with anger at him, and he knows this is not true. 

All the well aside, it still assures him to know that Arya thinks he a true Stark.

Arya looks away then, the smile slipping off her face, “I need you to understand something, Jon. I never thought the day would come when I would side with Sansa over you, but I find that I must.” She stands up, and pulls away from him. “Sansa is my sister, Jon. She and I have a bond that even I myself cannot understand. She is the strongest person I know, the truest Stark. I love Sansa, Jon. You are my brother, but Sansa is the one person in the world who understands. She is my other half. I forgive you a thousand times over for everything, but I simply cannot support you.” Arya smiles sadly at him. “I hope I will never have to choose between you two. I know you, Jon. You love Sansa. Not as a sister, but the way Father loved Mother. You love her with the ferocity of a wolf. And even with how much Father loved Mother, he still lied to her about you. With good reason, to protect her. I’m sure you have a reason, but I need you to know my loyalty to her will always come first.”

“I know, Arya.” He sighs. “I just hope when this is all over she can find it in her heart to forgive me.” 

Arya gives him a bitter smile. “Only Sansa can tell you whether or not that’ll happen.”

**xxviii. the return of theon greyjoy**

The first time Daenerys and Sansa sit alone is also the last time they sit alone together. 

She greets the dragon queen politely, but as cool as she can be without being cold. She knows Daenerys, knows her intentions with Jon, what she wants. 

She wants to snarl at the dragon queen, tell her that Jon is _ hers, _ that Daenerys cannot have her. Her father had promised her a man like him far before her words had appeared above her heart. Brave, gentle, and strong. That is all Jon is. He will forever be the man who she is promised to, and this dragon queen cannot steal him from her. 

But Sansa smiles and lets her sit down anyways, because she knows Daenerys does not have Jon. Jon had given himself to her, ripped himself away from Sansa’s embrace and gone to Daenerys. 

The dragon queen smiles at her, and Sansa understands, for a fleeting second, why he had done so. She really is the most beautiful woman in the world. 

“Welcome, your grace,” she says. “I trust you have found Winterfell adequate?” 

Daenerys smiles condescendingly. “Yes. I must admit, it confuses me how you all survive this far up North. It is so frighteningly cold.” 

She nods. “I brought some food from us.” Sansa hands her a plate of hard biscuits and tea. Not the meal fit for a queen, not even for the Lady of Winterfell, but it is all they have to spare.

“Not exactly the most luxurious of foods, even this far up north,” Daenerys comments wryly, sipping her tea, a displeased expression crossing her face.

Sansa nods. “Yes, and I apologize for that, but unfortunately, I’ve made sure our best provisions go to our soldiers.” 

Daenerys’s brow furrows. “You have your subjects the best food?” 

She nods. “Of course. Your armies as well. Our men need all the strength they can get before they face those beings on the battlefield. They are the dead, and the dead do not tire.” 

Daenerys nods. “Yes. Well, that is an honorable cause.” 

Sansa swallows nervously. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why did you come North?” 

Daenerys smiles. “Your brother, of course. Although, I suppose he would be your cousin.” Sansa tries to not let her shock show on her face, but she’s sure it must be apparent. “He is so _ passionate _ about his causes. I fell in love with him, Lady Sansa. I wanted to help him.” 

Sansa ignores the stab in her heart as she hears these words. “And his mark, it did not bother you?” 

Daenerys shakes her head. “Honestly, I couldn’t read the name easily, so I ignored it. He was stabbed right where it would be, I’m sure you know.” Daenerys sets down her cup of tea. “Lady Sansa. Your brother bent the knee for me because he understands the threat we are facing. He understands that my dragons and armies are the difference between life and death for you, and your people. He understands that I would be a good, kind, fair, ruler. A just one. A better one than your family had endured all these years. He did not bend the knee because he loves me. I came North because I love him.” 

Sansa nods. “Of course, your grace.” Daenerys lays a hand over hers, smiling softly. “I am eternally grateful for your support. You will help me save the very thing I must protect, the people of Winterfell. I wonder, of course, what happens next.” 

Daenerys smiles, but looks confused. “We defeat the Night King.” 

She nods. “And then Cersei. But what _ after?” _

“I become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, of course.” Daenerys does not understand what Sansa wants, and this delights Sansa. If she cannot understand Sansa now, she most likely never will. 

“The North deserves its independence, your grace. We have been subjugated for hundreds of years. My mother and brother died for Northern Independence. I bled for the North.” 

The smile slips off of Daenerys’s face, and she withdraws her hand. “Lady Sansa,” she says, carrying an undercurrent of tension in her voice. “The North is in my debt. I should think that enough to make you stay.” 

Sansa shakes her head. “These Northmen deserve their independence. Nothing has ever been good for the North without a Stark ruling over Winterfell. We deserve to be free. It was taken from us, years ago.” She levels Daenerys with a cool stare. “You know how terrible it is to have something you love taken away from you. The people want to be free, Daenerys.” Sansa sees how the dragon queen flinches at being called by her name, and resolves to only do so when necessary. “The people chose a Stark to be King in the North. More than once. They deserve to be free, if only because they chose so. We don’t want the Iron Throne. We want to be as far from the Iron Throne as possible.”

Sansa has seen, better than anyone else in all of Winterfell, how the throne corrupts. How power corrupts. She never wants such an ugly thing. She cannot fathom how she ever dreamed about sitting near that chair in the first place. Her people want to be independent, and it is her duty to make sure that happens. 

They chose Robb, and they chose Jon. The North remembers. The Starks remember, everything they have gone through. She knows this, in her bones. Daenerys can have the rest of them, but she cannot have the North. The North deserves to be independent, to have someone who knows it rule it. She won’t deny that at times she thinks she can, but if Jon wanted it, she would give it him any day. “The North deserves to be free. We deserve to be our own kingdom. We are not part of your conquest.”

Daenerys opens her mouth to respond, but a knock on the door startles them both. They turn, and there is a serving girl. She bows to Sansa. “My lady, you have a visitor.” 

Sansa’s brows furrow, but she nods, getting up. “You are welcome to join,” she says to Daenerys. The dragon queen smiles, but her eyes are somewhere else and her thoughts are not focused. 

Sansa follows the serving girl into the Great Hall, and there is a man standing there, his back to her. Her heart begins to pound, because it cannot be true. _ He _ cannot be there. She wills him to turn around instantly, but also wishes he wouldn’t, because if he isn’t who she thinks he is, she’s not sure if she will be able to survive the pain. 

But he does, and she locks eyes with Theon Greyjoy. 

“Theon,” Daenerys breathes behind her, a smile coming to her face. “What are you doing here? You and your sister were supposed to be getting the Iron Fleet ready to sail for King’s Landing!”

He steps forward, eyes never leaving Sansa’s. “I told Yara to go on ahead without me, your grace.” He smiles at Sansa, blue eyes a little sad and smile a little crooked, just how she remembers it. “I want to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa. If you’ll have me.”

She hears the intake of Daenerys’s breath, her shock, but for once in her life, Sansa does not care. This is _ Theon, _ who saved her, who helped her escape from Ramsay, who would have died to bring her to the Wall, who would have done anything for her. 

She shudders, and then lurches forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him. She squeezes her eyes shut, and tears gather on her eyelashes. 

A moment later, she feels strong arms wrap around her, and then Theon is hugging her, so tightly she can barely breath, but she doesn’t care. He is here. He is back with her. 

“Welcome home, Theon.” 

**interlude two**

She seethes in anger in her bedchambers that night. She doesn’t even want to be seen by Missandei of Naath, by Grey Worm, by her Hand. 

What the _ fuck _ is so special about Sansa Stark? Daenerys would _ love _ to know. Why must they all kneel for her, fall over themselves to please her? Sansa Stark has done nothing but been a thorn under foot, and Daenerys cannot seem to understand why everyone loves her so. 

She is their rightful queen, the one with the claim to the Iron Throne. She is the one who will save them all, who has already saved them all by bringing her dragons to this frigid North. She thinks of Jon then. 

She had done all of this for him, but she is not sure how much longer she will be able to bear it. What was it about Sansa Stark that caused men, and some women, to lose all wits about themselves? What was it about her that drew people to her. 

Daenerys had heard of what Sansa had suffered, from her cousin, and yet, she still finds it hard to respect the girl. She is so clearly just a girl, just a child, and Daenerys is a woman, a woman who has been through war and who has fought tooth and nail for everything to come here, who has earned everything she has now. Daenerys _ is _ fire and blood, and she finds herself unable to see how Sansa Stark compares to her. 

She sits on the bed and gently runs her fingers through the furs on the bed, and thinks, oddly, of the lemon tree, and the red door at the home she had grown up in. She is jealous of the Stark girl, in this sense, at least. She is home, and for Daenerys, home is somewhere is is no longer sure even exists.

(she wonders if this, if all of this, is just some misguided attempt to go home. To return to a peace she had barely known, and will likely never know again. she dismisses the thought as quickly as it had come)

And Sansa has something Daenerys never will, and craves. She has Jon Snow, has him in a way she can never hope to compete with. Daenerys is not stupid. Jon does not love her like he loves Sansa, even if he loves her only as a brother loves her sister. But Jon does love her. 

He loves her in some way, and besides, when all of this is over, Daenerys will be the queen. She will have the power, the control, and she will make Jon Snow be able to stay with her. 

She might not be able to make him fall in love with her the way he loves Sansa, as deeply as he loves Sansa, but she can tear them apart. She can show Sansa Stark who is truly in power here, who is the queen. Who is _ Jon’s _ queen. 

Daenerys has been the second choice all her life, after her brother, after her dragons, after her husband. She has never been content with being shoved aside, and she will not let it stand. Let Sansa Stark do what she may. 

She knows who is the true queen here, even if none of the rest of them know it. And if they do not realize it soon, she will make them all pay. After all, she had two dragons. Who would dare oppose her? 

**xxix. the man who killed a white walker**

When he finds Sam, he is down in the crypts. There is something odd about being back here, and he finds himself standing in front of Lyanna’s statue.

“Jon,” Sam says. “Hello.” He sounds odd, unlike Jon has ever heard him before, and he turns to look at his best friend. 

“Hello, Sam. I didn’t know you had made it back here. How’s Gilly?” 

“Good,” Sam nods. “Jon,” he sighs. “You knew about my father, and my brother, right?” 

Jon’s at a loss for words, so he can only look his friend in the eye. “Aye,” he whispers. Best leave the dead with the dead. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, Sam.” 

Sam nods, eyes bright. He doesn’t say anything, simply stares at the statue of Lyanna with Jon in silence for a few minutes. Jon’s uncomfortable with him there, in a way he’s never been before. If it was possible for him to feel more guilty that he already does, he’s sure he would. 

“You know they say she was one of the most beautiful women in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Jon looks at the statue of his mother. “Aye. Rhaegar didn’t crown her for no reason. He crowned her because he was a coward.” Jon hates his father, with a burning passion, and it is so different from the love and respect he felt for the man he called father for most of his life. “He crowned Lyanna, and stole her away. He doomed his own wife and children, and a young girl, because he was obsessed with the prophecy. Because he couldn’t think beyond that.” 

“There are those who say Robert’s Rebellion was built on a lie. Lyanna may have loved Rhaegar, but she was certainly a victim of his as well.” Sam looks to him. “You know her, Jon. You know she is far too much like her ancestors.” 

He shakes his head. “I cannot judge her based on the actions of her father. How would I be if I were held to the same standard.” 

“You’re right, Jon. That isn’t fair. But you can hold her to her own actions.” Sam turns to look at him, fully. “She burnt my family alive, Jon. She burnt my brother and my father alive, because they refused to bend the knee. She was determined to make an example out of them, instead of showing them mercy. Does that sound like a good queen to you?” 

Jon sighs. “I am sorry, Sam. I truly am.”

"My father was not a good man. This I know. He was harsh, and uncompromising, and when I turned out to be the son he never wanted, he rejected me. That does not mean he was not my father, and that I don’t grieve his death. And I loved my brother. He was always good to me, even being younger and the one my father preferred. I loved him. I cannot forgive her.” Sam turns to him. “You know what it is like to lose a father, to lose a brother.” 

Jon nods. “Sam, I grieve for you.” 

Sam wipes at his tears, looks at Jon. “You are my sworn brother, Jon. I would die for you. You are the truest friend I have ever known, and I will forever be thankful to you for that fact. You helped me save the woman I loved, fought alongside me in battle. I would do anything for you, anything you asked of me.” He smiles at him. “I think you forget just how well I know you, Jon. You know everything I am telling you about the dragon queen, and you kneel anyway.” 

He sighs, turns back to the statue of Lyanna. “You have a reason for what you are doing, and you have my support. I would follow you to the ends of the Earth, if need be. As long as you always trusted me.” 

“You have never given me a reason to doubt you, Sam,” Jon says. It is true. Sam is the brother he has never had his entire life, but always needed. So different, but also his perfect compliment. He is the truest friend of them all. 

“I know, Jon. I support you. I know that you believe what you are doing is right.” Sam moves out of the crypts, Jon follows. He looks around one more time. “The dead of Winterfell.” 

The dead of Winterfell. His entire life growing up here, and he had given these crypts much less thought than they deserved. He spares a glance back down, at the statue of Lyanna, of his father, or Brandon, of Robb and Rickon. It was time he took a page out of the Greyjoys’ book. What is dead may never die.

Best well enough to leave the dead with the dead. His parents were dead, all that he had ever known. It was time to forget that. To leave the dead in the ground. To rejoin his living, breathing family. To live once more. 

Sam looks at him. “She will never be my queen, Jon,” he says. 

Jon nods. He had been expecting this. “I know. To ask her such would be a great insult to your family. But she wants to rule.” 

Sam watches him carefully, and Jon struggles at times to reconcile the knowing man with the stammering boy he met years and years ago. Gods, it feels like the entire world has gone upside down and seven ways to hell by them. He supposes it has. 

“She wants to rule, yes. And she will burn down anything that stands in her way.” 

He winces at these words, even if he knows Sam is right. “We need her, Sam.” 

His friend sighs. “I don’t believe that, Jon. I think _ you _ think we need her. But you are the only Northman who thinks of her as your queen. You and I both know who is the true Queen of the North.” 

_I don’t think of her as my queen, _ he wants to shout. _ Sansa is the only queen I have ever known, the only queen I will ever know. She is the only one who loves the North enough to run it as well as Father. _He shouts none of this, simply sighs and nods. 

They step out into the courtyard, and a serving boy rushes up to him. 

“My lord!” he says. “Lady Sansa and the dragon queen, they require you in the hall immediately!” 

Jon’s already moving towards the building before the boy can tell him why, and he’s frowning as he pushes open the door to see—

“Oh, _ fuck _,” Sam says from behind him. 

The noise causes everyone to look right at them, and the Kingslayer to swivel around, catching Jon’s eyes.

Of course. Because why not?


	2. act ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this should honestly alternatively be titled: i ramble on about jaime lannister and how amazing he is for 19k to make sansa stark realize that and the friendship i desperately wish had somehow been shown on the show even though it would have never happened in 6.7 billion years. 
> 
> so yeah basically this chapter is a lot of heavy like dialogue and character backstory. jaime and sansa are by Far my two favorite characters on the show and so i gave them a lot of dialogue and interaction in this fic because i needed it. they both have incredibly interesting developments (obviously why i love them so much lol) and i tried to create a believable friendship that i felt would have developed, although the passage of time isn't easily depicted. 
> 
> one final thing: the end of this chapter features sexytimes ;) which i hope you all like! stay tuned for the final installment next week!!

**xxx. the kingslayer**

Sansa looks at him, all beard and bruises and tired green eyes. She has heard the stories, and never truly seen the Kingslayer in years. 

She wonders why he is here. 

She lifts an eyebrow. “Am I to assume you’ve brought the whole Lannister army, and they’re hiding somewhere in Deepwood Motte?” 

The words themselves cut, and he looks down. “I thought so.” She looks back at Daenerys. “It seems we cannot count on the Lannister Queen’s support in this war after all.

Daenerys sits in Sansa’s chair, in the chair her father sat in. The thought causes rage to bubble up in her gut, but she tempers it down. They have more pressing matters to deal with. “When I was a child,” Daenerys says, “my father would tell me stories of the man who killed my father. What we would do to him. How he would be punished.” 

As she expected, the Kingslayer shows no remorse. He simply juts out his chin, takes what she is saying to him. 

Sansa feels vicious anger twisting inside her body. She does not owe this man her silence. She does not owe this man anything. “You attacked my father, Ned Stark, in the streets of King’s Landing. You killed Jory Cassel.” She bites her tongue, trying to stop what Bran had told her earlier spilling out.  _ You crippled my brother, a boy ten and younger than your last child.  _

The Kingslayer scoffs. “You are all children!” he spits. “Asking for repentance during times of war. I will not apologize for these things. We were at war, and everything I did, I did to protect my family. I did it to keep them safe. That is something you Starks should be able to understand.” 

“The things we do for love,” Bran says softly. The Kingslayer whirls around to face him, shock all over his face. Sansa turns to look at her brother, and he is staring at the man, an impassive look on his face. His gaze holds a thousand stories, however, and Sansa wants to know every piece of what he is thinking. 

Daenerys shakes her head. “We cannot accept you, after everything you have done.” 

“Wait,” Sansa says. She holds out a hand, openly defying the queen.  _ Well done, Kingslayer, _ she thinks bitterly. “We need every sword and man we can get against the dead.” 

Daenerys’s eyes crackle with anger. “We cannot trust him! Not after what he did to our families!” 

“He came here, by himself, to help us.” 

“I made a promise to fight for the living,” the Kingslayer presses. “I intend to honor that promise.” 

Daenerys sneers. “A one-handed man? What possible help can you be?” 

“My lady.” The sound of a chair scraping draws Sansa attention away from the fire in Daenerys’s eyes and to the Hall. Where Brienne is rising. 

Sansa would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit surprised, but it is less so than she had thought. She knew of Brienne’s sword, the golden lion on the pommel, and of the promise he had made to her mother. She knows of Brienne’s fondness for the man, but they had never interacted in front of her. She had almost though Brienne’s fondness for the man to be entirely of her own invention. 

But apparently the fondness is more than slight, from the way Brienne stands, half in front of the Kingslayer, as though she means to shield him, not  _ just _ from the dragon queen, but from the rest of the lords in the hall, and even from Jon.

Sansa raises an eyebrow.  _ Interesting. _

“You don’t know me well, your grace.” Brienne’s voice is confident, and it makes Sansa sit up just a tad straighter, tilt her head ever so slightly. She doesn’t trust the Kingslayer, not by a long shot, but she trusts Brienne implicitly. “But I know the kind of man Ser Jaime is. He is a good man, a man with honor. He will not break his promise.”

“How do you know this, Brienne?” Sansa asks. She taps her finger against the wooden arm of the chair. 

Brienne seems to struggle with what she is about to say for a moment, but she managed to force the words out. “I was bring Ser Jaime back to King’s Landing when we were captured by Vargo Hoat and his men. When the mummers ...when they tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And in doing so, he paid with his hand.” 

Sansa knows only bits and pieces of the story, what Brienne had let slip when she had asked. But even she, with all her loyalty to her lady, had not let much slip, and Sansa had been unwilling to push, knowing that some wounds were just too painful to reopen. 

“Why are you so sure he will be able to keep his promise?” Daenerys asks. Her eyes flicker from Brienne back to the Kingslayer, watching. 

“Because he kept his promise to Lady Sansa’s mother, Lady Catelyn, and sent me with this sword and armor north, to find the Lady Sansa and bring her back, safe.” 

“Which you have done,” Sansa murmurs. She nods, speaking to Brienne, but looking at the Kingslayer. “Would you fight beside him?” 

“I would.” Brienne’s voice does not waver, but Sansa’s eyes watch the Kingslayer. The change is almost imperceptible, unnoticed by everyone in the hall, but she is watching him far too closely for that, sees as his eyes widen ever so slightly, and they cast themselves down to the floor in a second. 

It is this, more than anything, that convinces her. This is a man who knows he doesn't deserve Brienne’s loyalty, but has it anyways, and so this is a man who respects her. Any man who respects Brienne is worth much more in Sansa’s eyes. 

She nods. “Very well. We shall let him stay.” 

She can see Daenerys turn her head in shock at her out of the corner of her eye, but she ignores it. She has no time for dragons now. She is facing a lion. 

The Kingslayer beats Daenerys to what she was going to say, speaking directly to Sansa. 

“I would pledge my sword to you, Lady Sansa.” 

Sansa’s eyebrows rise. Well. The Kingslayer manages to keep on shocking. 

She stares at him for a second. He holds his gaze with hers, green on blue, and her mouth curves into a small smile. She can see Bran, watching him, somehow gaze warmer. Jon is still at the door, where he has been for the entirety of the trial, but as his gaze moves between the Kingslayer and Sansa, it shifts, goes a little deeper and darker. She knows he has seen what she has. 

She rises. Holds out her hand. “Give me his sword.”

The entire Hall seems to shudder. Everyone sits, with bated breath. There is not a hint of movement in the entire room, until she hears the scrape of the Kingslayer’s sword against wood, and finds it pressed into her hand. 

She turns, sees Jon. He gives her a nod, and as he moves away, she can see the sneer of the dragon queen, the way her lip has curled in displeasure. 

_ Yes. Be upset. He will always choose Winterfell over you,  _ Sansa thinks bitterly. But they have no time for petty squabbles of the heart. 

She turns back to the Kingslayer, gripping her heavy, heavy sword in his hands. She looks down on it, and then back at Oathkeeper. 

For a split second, she wishes with hot anger that she could melt both of them down and reforge them back into Ice, as if that would bring her father back to her. But ladies have no time for such emotions, and so she simply settles for being content that the two halves of her father’s sword are together once more. 

She hands the Kingslayer the sword, and he unsheathes it. He glances at it for a second, then back up at her, knowledge in his eyes, but not pity, before he gets down on one knee. She respects him all the more for this.

“I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

She wonders what her father would say if she saw her now. But she banishes those thoughts from her mind. He is not here, and the Kingslayer is. Her father is no longer the leader of her people. She is. 

“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise.”

He stands, and sheaths his sword once more. 

She steps closer to him. “Rename your sword, Ser.” There is no room for argument in her tone, but the Kingslayer —no,  Lannister does not seem inclined to argue anyways. 

“As you wish, your Grace.” 

Sansa tries not to faint in shock. Lannister addresses her as one would address a  _ queen,  _ not a lady, and she cannot help but look back at the high table. Daenerys makes no indication of having heard what he said, still staring at him with anger burning in her eyes. But her eyes land on Jon, and for a second, she thinks,  _ thank you, Lannister. If only you recognize it. _

She sits back at the high table. “I did not think you were in the business of forgiving easily, Lady Stark.” Daenerys says. 

Sansa gives her a humorless smile. “I am not. But we need all the swords we can to stay alive. And I am in the business of trusting my advisors, especially Brienne.” 

Daenerys nods, and looks like she wants to say more, but she holds her tongue. She stands up, however, and gives Jon a sharp look. He follows after her, but not before glancing back at Sansa once, who refuses to meet him in the eye. 

He leaves, and she is left with all the problems of her people to solve.

**xxxi. the man who betrayed the queen**

Daenerys seethes as Jon closes the door behind her. “How could you do that? She openly defied me, in the middle of the court. And you  _ helped  _ her.” She straightens, looks him in the eyes with a fury that is barely restrained. 

“Never disobey me again.”

He wants to yell and shout, scream at her for the level of servitude she expects from a land of entire strangers. A realm she knows nothing about.

She has been in the North less than a fortnight and she thinks she has the same control over it that Sansa does. 

He wonders if she has bled for anything like Sansa has, if she has seen the things Sansa has. He knows, on some level, that Daenerys has suffered, that she has undergone pain no human should ever have to go through. He knows that tragedy has been part of her life since the moment she was born. 

And yet he wonders what this has done to her, this making of tragedy. 

It is interesting, how tragedy makes a person. How it shapes them, for the rest of their lives. Some stars up there deem it that some must suffer more than others, and that more may die while young. 

He thinks of Ygritte and tries not to shatter his soul. Sansa has come out of tragedy a phoenix, all flames in the wake of ashes, red like her hair, an avenging angel with a heart like ice. 

He wonders what god out there taught her to be so strong, and he mourns it and loves it at the same time. 

He looks at Daenerys, all fire and blood. Her eyes crackle with anger, and she waits for a response from him. He cannot help but wonder if tragedy has strengthened her, or simply cracked open her hatred, added to her thirst for vengeance, multiplied her pain. 

“I did not disobey you with any intention to do so, my queen,” he says. “I simply was acting in the best interest of the North. Lannister traveled this far to lend us whatever hand he has. We need it.” 

Her fingers curl over the back of a chair, white knuckled. “In the best interest of the North, or in the best interest of  _ her, _ Jon?” She purses her lips and looks away from him. “You need to stop treating her as though she is in charge, as though she is your leader.” Daenerys looks back at him, steps closer to him. She curls her hands around his jerkin, tugging him closer to her.

“She doesn’t need to be my friend, but I am her queen. If she can’t respect me…”

Jon hears what she is saying, albeit not very clearly over the rush of blood in his ears. He focuses on not losing his anger right there and then, and simply presses his lips together, nodding. 

_ Sansa is in charge, _ he wants to shout.  _ She is the eldest surviving Stark, the leader of Winterfell. She is the Queen of the North, more than you will ever be. She was born to lead us all.  _

_ And if you dare lay a finger on her, the North will remember. It has lost too many Starks already. It will not stand by and watch as we lose another. It has made that mistake too many times already.  _

But he says none of this, simply nods. “Very well, my queen. I understand.” 

Daenerys’s face breaks out in a smile and she caresses the side of Jon’s face where his scar lies, thumb brushing over it gently. “I hope when the time comes, I can trust you will support me. And I hope it will not come to this, but if she ever stands against me, I hope you will understand who is in the right here.” Her eyes roam over his face, searching. 

“I have the birthright, Jon. I will take back Westeros, and that includes the North.” 

He closes his eyes. He hates himself for what he is doing, not only for what he is doing to Sansa, but for what he is doing to Daenerys. He knows she does not mean to be a terrible ruler, does not mean to hurt the small folk. But her entire life she has been fed lies, she has been alone. 

_ A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. _

He has never understood this until now, but he sees what everyone means by this. Anyone alone in the world is a terrible thing, but he, as always, cannot help and go back to Sansa.

She is a wolf, and even if she did not have the strength of her pack for years, she always had it to remember, the love of her mother and father and brothers and sister. 

Daenerys has never had that. She has been alone in the world from the moment she was born, and Jon knows this is a terrible thing. He pities her, but he also cannot allow her to rule. She may have good intentions, but she will not have good results. 

The gods may judge her by what is in her heart, but Jon knows innocents will suffer from her actions.

Some part of him wants to think that this will not end in fire and blood, in the ashes of innocent people, in the death of loyal soldiers. 

But he is wrong. The words of Ramsay Snow haunt him, and even as he loathes to keep that demon, that horrid man in his mind, he knows what he says is right. This will not have a happy ending, at least, not for all of them. 

It is a tragedy that has been written in blood, fated by the old gods for centuries. 

Jon wonders if their names are not known so he cannot curse at them. 

**xxxii. the last night**

She thinks it an odd thing, the feeling that you are about to die. 

It is a feeling she has become well acquainted with over the years, and she wonders if her mother and father had felt this when they had breathed their last, if Robb and Rickon had felt it, if Petyr had felt it, if Joffrey had it in his stomach when the cold tendrils of death wrapped around him. 

She looks at Theon, who sits across from her, in the fading flickering of light, in the coldness of the night. 

It is an odd thing, how she feels at home in the coldness of ice, how she thinks she is so cold no ice can harm her. 

“My lady,” Theon says, handing her a bowl. It is soup, tasteless and probably old, but it is hot and she cannot find herself with any desire to turn it away. It may be her last night on this earth, in this castle, and she cannot think of anything better to do than sit in the courtyard of Winterfell, her first, last, and only true home, and enjoy a bowl of warm soup with the man who saved her life. 

Sometimes the only place to go is back to the beginning. 

**xxxiii. the blood of the starks**

Longclaw feels heavier in his hand than it ever has before, and he grips it tightly. 

This is what will kill him, he is sure of it. The waiting, the waiting, always the waiting. He has been haunted by the Night King for years, and part of him wonders what he will do once the King is vanquished. 

(he does not allow himself to think of what will happen if they fail)

It’s an odd thought, but Jon almost doesn’t want him to leave. He wishes there was someway he could convince Daenerys to head to King’s Landing without him, because as soon as the War of the Dead is over, she has no reason to stay here anymore. She will go fight, and he will be expected to follow her. 

He wonders when his life had become this, following after the dragon queen, fighting a war he had no intention of being a part of. 

He has been haunted, cursed with the vision of the Night King for years, and he knows the King must be vanquished, must be slain. Jon thought he would feel elated at this, but he does not, and it is clear why. 

His entire life, ever since joining Castle Black, has been about this. And when this comes to an end, who will want him? What will he be able to do? At this end of this war he is afraid his purpose will die as well, and there is nothing he can do about it. 

(mostly, he is afraid sansa will no longer want him, although she doesn’t seem to want him much right now anyways)

He grips his sword tightly, squeezes his eyes shut. This is his destiny, his fate. No matter what happens tonight, he will have fulfilled whatever purpose the old gods set him on this earth to do, will have been whatever man they have intended him to be. He will have done what he needs to do. 

But no matter how many times he tells himself this, it still feels hollow. 

His entire existence was a cruel twist of fate by the gods, a bastard born of the noblest man in Westeros. He's lived his entire life searching, searching for his meaning, and now that he has found it, it will be ripped from him. Jon knows this is wrong, that the Night King must be killed, so that everyone may live, so that Sansa and Arya and Bran will live, but he cannot quell this feeling anyways. He does not know what the old gods intend for him after this, but then he thinks of what Bran says.  _ Who says there will be an afterwards? _

Still, his entire future is crumbling in on itself, and he thinks no matter what, he will always be a bastard of Winterfell.

**xxxiv. the pointy end**

“I can fight.” she insists, looking at her sister. Which is a lie, she can’t, nowhere near as well as Arya or Jon or Brienne. 

She is not a fighter, not in the way they need right now. But it’s the wolf inside of her, clawing at her insides, tearing her to shreds, begging to protect. The idea of sending Arya out there, where she cannot watch over her sister, where she cannot protect her, makes Sansa want to vomit. 

“You can’t, Sansa. And besides, even if you could, you are the most important person here. We  _ need _ you,” Arya says, looking at her. 

And maybe it is the she-wolf inside of her, the sister to Arya’s, but she understands what her sister is trying to do. They will never stop trying to protect each other. And so Sansa smiles, nods, but drags her sister close for a quick hug. 

“Come back to me, please,” she begs, voice breaking. She wills the tears not to fall, but they drip from her eyes anyways, and she pulls away quickly. She might be able to endure, but wolves can only lose so much of their pack. 

Arya presses a dagger into her hand. “Just in case.” She smiles at Sansa. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” 

She nods, letting out a laugh, and then her sister turns to watch the Dothraki screamers, turns to watch as the Army of the Dead approaches. 

“Go, Sansa,” she says softly. “Let one wolf survive tonight.” 

**xxxv. the long(est) night**

It is the disappearing screams of the Dothraki that send chills down Jon’s spine. He wonders what this whole night will be for. 

_ Half their force, gone in a matter of seconds.  _

But they have no choice. They must fight. 

“Hold your ground!” he shouts. “The dead do not tire. Stay!” 

He thinks over everything that has brought him here, to this moment, to fire and flames and roses and lions, of stags and wolves and snow and sun, of valyrian steel and dragons and white, always white. Of Edd and Father and Sam, of Sansa and Arya and Ygritte, of Mance and Tormund, of Bran and Daenerys. 

He thinks of Catelyn then, always harsh, never forgiving of him. He thinks of the promise she had made him, to fulfill the only thing he had ever truly wanted, the first thing he ever wanted. He remembers scratching out  _ Jon Stark _ and writing  _ Jon Snow. _ He remembers trying to escape his fate, trying to label himself as someone else. 

The Night’s Watch wasn’t just for rapists and murderers and betrayers, but for men trying to escape their own lives as well, for people trying to live another way. 

Jon wonders which of those categories he falls into. He has spent his entire life running, away from Winterfell, away from who he was supposed to be, away from Robb and Arya and Father, away from Catelyn and Sansa, away from Bran and Rickon, away from Ramsay, away from the Night King. 

This war is his, and he has brought it along with him to Winterfell, condemned everyone in this castle. He closes his eyes, curses his name to the old gods. There is so much blood waiting to be spilled, and he must be strong enough to weather it all.

It is when the Red Woman looks at him that Jon understands. She closes her eyes, lights the trench around Winterfell, and the war begins. 

**xxxvi. the screaming**

The crypts are not silent, as one would think, and as Sansa sits there, surrounded by Tyrion and Missandei and the dead Starks of Winterfell, she wants to let out a bitter laugh. 

Smart, leaving them in a place where the dead may rise. 

She grips her dagger and waits. 

**xxxvii. the flight among dragons**

God, Jon hates flying on these overgrown lizards. He hates it, hates how the wind whips through his hair and how the water bites at his cheeks. He is a Stark, and so the cold does not bother him. It is not the cold, but the feeling of weightlessness, the feeling that you are never grounded, that you do not belong up here. 

He does not understand how Daenerys likes it. But they have other things to worry about, and even as wights cross into Winterfell, even as bodies lying on the ground rise up. 

Every time one of their men is cut down, another soldier for the Night King arises. 

He is soon knocked off his dragon, however, and then makes his way through the battlefield. Jon is a soldier, a warrior through and through. He has killed men, watched them die before his very eyes, been in the thick of battle. He has been so overwhelmed that death seems to touch every piece of him, completely overtaken. 

His entire life death has been lurking in the pages, waiting to strike. He has died. 

But nothing has been quite like this before, he thinks.

It is not the smell of death that disgusts him. It is the way it almost seems to linger in the air, the way it seems to settle into his skin and coat his body, the way he breathes it in and it coats his lungs. 

When he dies, will it be from a wound or from all the death that has surrounded him, from the moment he was born? His mother died when he was barely a week, his dragon father slain far before then. His true father had his head chopped off when he was just a boy, and the only woman who’d ever been anything sort of a mother murdered, along with her eldest son, his true brother, not long after. 

He has been haunted by death his entire life, so when he stands in the middle of this battlefield, the convergence between hell and earth, Jon feels like he understands. 

Even as he cuts down Northern men he recognizes, their blue eyes glowing, even as he burns them, there is still so much death. More and more death. 

Jon does not know if he will survive this night. He had gone into it expecting to die, expecting to perish, but even has he hacks through wights, even as he makes his way through the castle to Bran, he cannot help but think that this may not be the end. 

Either way, he had died once before. He could do it again. 

**xxxviii. the crypts of winterfell**

When the dead arise, she is ready. 

She is a Stark, and never let it be said that Lady Sansa backed down without a fight. She is a true Stark, the eldest child of Eddard Stark, the eldest daughter of Catelyn Stark, and she is as much a wolf as her father. She is as much a wolf as her mother. 

**xxxix. the night king**

Fucking hell, he really really  _ really _ hates dragons, and he kind of wishes that this one would just die already. 

It’s already been killed once, but now he cannot get to his little brother as the Night King approaches. 

But he is still Jon Snow, once the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, once the King in the North, the heir to Winterfell, the Stark Bastard. 

There is a shadow out of the corner of his eye, a shadow that is small and nimble and quick, a shadow that looks back at him and glances at him with eyes so alike his. 

A shadow that grips a shining dagger in its hand, and so he understands what he must do. Never let it be said that Jon Snow was unwilling to sacrifice his life for his family, for the North, for all those he loved. 

So he plants himself in front of a dragon and screams, if only for one more moment, if only against a force he cannot hope to win against, if only to make sure the rest of them survive the night. 

He has been haunted by the Night King for years, seen blue eyes whenever he has closed his own. He has been haunted by the Night King even in death, cursed with knowledge, and even as he stares at a dragon with those same glowing blue eyes, he cannot stand down. He needs to do this. It is the last enemy, the only enemy, that he faces off against. 

And then the dragon falls, thudding to the ground soundly before his very eyes, and he looks up to find Arya clutching her dagger, eyes wide in shock. She glances back at him, face dirtied, hair whipping, and nods. 

He has defeated his enemy once more, and even as his entire body relaxes, a weight lifting off his shoulders unlike it has for  _ years, _ he knows the enemy will come for him once again. 

He simply wonders which time he will accept death’s arrival. 

**xl. ** **the morning after**

She watches as they cart body after body, as they take the Andal away, the dragon queen weeping for him, as Sam closes’s Edd’s eyes, as little Lyanna Mormont, brave to the very end, is wrapped up and burnt. 

She turns her head when Davos arrives, and quietly informs her that Melisandre had perished, taking her own life in the bitter cold. Vaguely, she thinks,  _ a smart choice for a woman who knows far too much and does far too little about it.  _

But it is Theon who is her undoing. She watches him brought in, a wound on his side, and she lets out a cry and rushes to him. 

His eyes are closed, and she wishes more than anything for them to open, so blue, blue, blue. Even now, he still smells like the sea. 

“He’s not dead.” Sansa looks up to find Bran, impassive as ever. 

“What?” she whispers, scarcely able to believe it. She presses her head to Theon’s chest, listening, always listening. 

It’s so faint, barely there, to the point where she has to keep her ear pressed to his chest for thirty seconds, but then she hears it. A solid thud. 

She orders him to be brought to a maester immediately, and counts her blessings, closing her eyes. The old gods are cruel, and so are the Seven, but they have spared her this one thing, at the very least. 

There is very little magic left in the world, but she thinks that does not mean there are no more miracles either. 

**xli. the king beyond the wall**

It makes her uncomfortable, he can tell. The praise of the wildlings. What use is there? He’s been hearing the whispers around Winterfell. They all know who he is, but unlike Daenerys had feared, none of them support him. 

In fact, they dislike him. Their eyes follow Sansa, the northmen. The wildings, however, care not for southron kings and bloodlines. They do not understand what is the difference between a Targaryen and a Stark. They are all southerners to them. 

The wildlings support him, and Tormund’s constant proclamations of his bravery and his thinking unnerve her. Daenerys will stop at nothing to have the Iron Throne, and no matter how many times Jon says he cares not for it, she doesn’t seem convinced. 

When all you can see is a path of burnt ashes on your way to victory, he supposes anything that stands in the way must be burnt down as well. 

He wishes more than anything for Sansa to be here with him, to hover in the background, silent and strong as always, but she is gone, tending to Theon. Sharp jealousy wracks at his body, even though he has no right to feel this way. He is the one who has betrayed her. 

Even as Daenerys gives Gendry back Storm’s End, even as they cheer and drink and celebrate, her eyes, so cool, still watch him. Narrow as men clap him on the shoulder, a few drinks in and far more forgiving of his secrets and lies. 

The northmen might think him a dragon, but he is not. He can tell, in the way their bows are not as deep to Daenerys as they are to Sansa, how they look to her, and always her, first, how they follow her, how they love her, that their true queen is not a dragon, but a wolf. 

Dragons cannot survive for long in the snow, and wolves do not do well in the heat. 

She stands up, and looks at him, and he, ever so eager to keep her placated, follows her. 

She closes the door behind him, and looks at him, and for the first time, her eyes glint with tears. “They died, Jon,” she whispers. 

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, before he understands. “Jorah. Rhaegal.” She nods, wiping at her eyes. 

“My child,” she sobs, clutching onto him. “My dragon and Jorah, they’re  _ dead. _ God, Jon, how do you deal with this? This loss? I feel as though I will die from it. The pain?” 

“You don’t,” he says softly. Perhaps this is cruel of him, but he has never connected with her quite as much as in this moment, crying and broken, suffering and in pain. It is cruel and vicious of him, but for once he sees the girl fire and blood has warped, the girl war has twisted and broken, manipulated and maimed into the weapon of being she is. “You don’t deal with pain, Daenerys. You feel it. If you don’t feel it, you lose the last bits of what makes you human.”

(he knows this because the pain had haunted him his entire life, had been the last thing tethering him to this earth after his resurrection. even now, seeing edd’s closed eyes, little lyanna mormont ashes instead of the lady of her house, the  _ leader _ of her house, the pain rips through him)

Daenerys pulls herself together, and wipes her tears away. “I will not bear it,” she says. She looks past him. “I will be strong enough to endure. I am a dragon, and dragons do not feel pain.” 

_ But they can be killed,  _ he thinks, and watches as her face settles into an impassive mask. “You will follow me to King’s Landing, correct? To take back my throne?” 

Jon hesitates. “Your grace,” he begins. 

“I will take back my birthright, Jon Snow. Whether or not you will be there is your own choice. But for the sake of everyone here at Winterfell, I think you should join me.” Her face softens, and she presses a hand to his cheek. “I want you there with me, Jon. I want you there with me, side by side, like we will be for the rest of our life.” 

_ The game, Jon. Play the game.  _

He resists the urge to coil away from her, and nods instead. “If that is what you wish, my queen. Then so be it.” 

She smiles then, softer than usual but still slightly sharp, and lifts herself up on her toes to kiss him. Even as he kisses her back, he knows the price is not worth it. But blood must have more blood. 

**xlii. the unmaking of a man**

She finds him in what remains of the Broken Tower. 

She is not afraid of him, not anymore, but that does not mean she cannot be cautious. 

He sits with his back to her, armor stripped off. It is early night, the kind where the streaks of darkness paint themselves across a light sky, and he sits at the nearly demolished side of the Tower, staring up at the stars, as if they will give him some answers. His sword glints next to him, on his left side, of course, Oathkeeper’s twin. 

_ Brienne’s twin, _ she thinks. 

She lifts up her skirts and approaches him, making no effort to be particularly quiet. She can pinpoint the exact moment when he hears her: his back stiffens, hand shoots out to grab his sword, and he stands up, turning around. 

Lannister looks rather shocked to see her there. “Lady Sansa.” He doesn’t offer platitudes like anyone else would have, doesn’t explain the obvious. He simply nods and sets his sword back down. 

“Lannister,” she says. “Watching the stars, are we?” 

His mouth twists into a crooked smile. “I thought last night would be my last one on Earth, and as it drew closer, I realized in all those nights at Riverrun, in all my nights at Casterly Rock, I never looked up and saw the stars.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “What about King’s Landing?” 

He scoffs, settling back into his spot as she sits next to him. He is an interesting man, this Kingslayer, this Lion of Casterly Rock, this Lannister. She thinks he is one of the most interesting people she has ever met. “That city, it’s filled with so much shit and cunts that you couldn’t see the stars even if you wanted to try. And it sucks things out of you, the desire to even see them. It wasn’t until I came north until that thought even occurred to me again.” 

She’s silent for a minute then, watching him carefully. “Do you think the stars will give you answers, Lannister?” 

He shakes his head. “No. I’ve stopped looking for answers. But perhaps just sitting here will offer me a last comfort before we go to face my sister.” 

“Ah, yes,” she comments dryly. “In the tower where you attempted to kill my brother, ended up crippling him.” 

He gives no visible expression of shock, beyond the widening of those damned green Lannister eyes, just like Cersei’s, just like Tyrion’s. He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “When did he tell you?” 

She purses her lips. “Before we accepted you into the hall, actually. When I had first been informed of your arrival, Bran took me into another room and explained all that had happened, in that distant, odd tone of his. It was nothing short of unnerving, I think.” 

“So why haven’t you sent your sister out here to slit my throat?” he asks, green meeting blue underneath a sky studded with stars. It’s a fair question, and had it been anyone else Bran had told, Sam, Jon, Daenerys, she’s sure Lannister would be dead by now. But she pauses, thinks about what she is going to say before she says it. 

“Because you and I know Cersei better than anyone else here, and we are the only two people who truly understand her.” He looks confused, but nods, and she smirks, rolling her eyes. “I know why you did it, Lannister. Unlike my brother, I choose to think before I act.” 

“An admirable quality,” he interjects. “One I wish I possessed. So, why did I do it?” 

She gives him a humorless smile. “The same reason anyone would do it. To protect the people you loved. Robert Baratheon may have been my father’s best friend, but he was a terrible king, and he would have killed your sister any chance he got. He begot dozens of bastards around the kingdom, and treated her terribly. I know what it is like to be trapped in a loveless marriage.” He laughs at that, a small sound, but a bitter laugh nonetheless. “You tried to kill an innocent boy because three innocent— _ two _ innocent children would have died had you not. Your three children, and your sister. Even if she wasn’t your lover, she would have been your sister, and you would have killed him to protect her.” 

He looks out at the stars, clustering slowly with the approaching night. “That’s quite perceptive of you, Lady Stark. How do you know all of that is true?” 

“Because I know your sister,” she replies simply. “I know that the only thing that’s common between you two is how much you love your family, and what you would do for both of them. You crippled Bran to save four other lives, possibly five, if you were thinking of your own, and I cannot fault you too much for that when it is exactly what my mother would have done to protect her children, when it is exactly what I would have done to protect my family.” 

“How come no one else sees it like you?” Lannister throws a stone out the demolished top, watching it as it soars over. 

She smiles bitterly. “Life is nothing but a series of choices, Lannister, and your very choices have led you here, to defend the North, to turn your back on your sister, the hardest thing you’d ever had to do. I have to believe those choices were for a reason.” 

He stops moving at this entirely, just looks out at the sky. The inky black of night has deepened, and even more stars wink out.

“You said the only thing my sister and I had in common was our love for our family,” he says, voice cracking. “Many would think that a difference. She’s hateful, and so am I.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Oh dear god, Lannister. Must you always be so dramatic? Clearly I don’t believe that, or I wouldn’t have said you two are almost totally different.”

He laughs then, a bright, clear sound. “I didn’t know I was being so dramatic.” 

Her lips turn up into a smile. “Yes, with all your  _ Oh, woe is me, I’m the worst person to ever exist alive _ routine.” The smile slips from her face, and she moves slightly closer the him. “I’m going to be honest with you, Lannister. I know your sister, and I know you. You are not as hateful as she.” He opens his mouth to argue, but she cuts him off with a look. “Do  _ not _ interrupt me. You have enough honor for Brienne to vouch for you, and she is one of the most honorable people I know.” 

“And I,” he murmurs. She spares a glance at him. She knows that look in his eyes. It is the kind of look you give a lost love, but not a love you have loved and lost, but a love you have lost without ever having it in the first place. 

She has that same look in her eyes when she looks at Jon. “You are not a hateful man, Lannister. Not anymore. You may have done some hateful things, but you will never be like your sister.”

“No one else seems to understand how dangerous Cersei is,” he remarks. “How come they don’t believe you? You lived with her for years. You know her.” 

She shrugs. “I am not sure. Perhaps because she is a woman. Perhaps because she is a queen. They do not believe me when I say she is the biggest threat.”

Lannister scoffs. “They’re incredibly foolish. My sister is one of the smartest people I have ever met. She manipulated me, for my entire life. She controlled you, while in King’s Landing. I gave her up because I knew she would rather burn alive than let the throne slip from her hands. She is drunk on power, and she will not give it up.” 

“I know. I know exactly how she works. She will do anything to remain powerful, and so I have been trying to tell them outright war is wrong. Cersei would let all of King’s Landing burn before giving up the throne.” 

“My sister should have killed you when she had the chance. You’ve become far smarter than her.” 

She nods, serious. “Probably. But you’re not like her, Lannister. You’re my sworn sword, and you mean it. Why have you turned your back on your sister, who you once loved more than anyone else in the entire world? What could have possibly changed your mind?” 

He starts to undo the straps of his false hand, tugging at the leather. “It certainly wasn’t by choice, I’ll let you know that. It was your brother, actually.” He smirks. “You Starks really are a pile of geniuses. Your brother, younger than me by a decade and a half, bested much more experienced men in battle, only to be brought down by foolish Baratheons. Your bastard brother is a brilliant tactician, even if he is insufferably honorable. Your sister, killed the Night King, fluent in more languages than me before her twentieth nameday. Your younger brother, who sees far too much and knows exactly how to persuade someone.” He gives her a bright, genuine smile. “Of course, you, the smartest person in the Seven Kingdoms. I think you are far more brilliant than my brother. He’s lost some of his cleverness once he went with the dragon queen. You know how to play the games better than anyone else I know.” 

“Stay on topic, Lannister. Flattery will get you nowhere. What did my brother do?” 

“Captured me, of course.” He picks at the floor next to him. “He captured me, and held me in a cage, for so many nights. I am not the one to think things through, Lady Stark. I make decisions before thinking about them. I put action over thought. You are not like that. It was part of the reason Cersei was able to maintain her hold on me for so long. I never let myself think about what she was doing to me, only how I felt. But trapped in that cage, I could do nothing but think about Cersei. Thinking of her helped me survive. The idea of getting back to her.”

He falls silent then. “And then your mother set me free so that Brienne might be able to exchange me for you. And I saw myself for the first time in months. You have to understand, Sansa, part of Cersei’s control over me was how alike we looked. She was my twin, my other half. And then I saw myself. I was haggard, bearded, bloodied and bruised. I looked nothing like her. This was before I lost my hand, and I began to see how different we truly were.” 

He holds up his stump then, smooth skin, an arm missing a hand. “Vargo Hoat took what mattered the most away from me, and it repulsed Cersei.  _ She _ is the corruption I have lived with my whole life.” 

“So, without your hand—”

“I was no longer her perfect twin, someone she could control. We only fucked and loved because I suppose part of us loved how forbidden it was. And then Robert died, I lost my hand, and I was forced to confront the monster my sister had been.” He looks at her, more sadness in his eyes than she thought possible. “I was blind, my lady. I saw my sister as who I believed her to be, who I wished her to be. Not who she was. And her treatment of me when I lost my hand made that clear to me. She didn’t want me, with all of my imperfections. She wanted someone to follow her relentlessly, to trail after her like a simpering puppy. And when that stopped being me, the perfect Lannister lion, she threw me aside. Everything she did after that was a desperate attempt to keep me on her side while pushing me away. She wanted my loyalty, but was unwilling to show me that same loyalty.” 

“It was Brienne, wasn’t it?”

He looks genuinely shocked, then nods. “Yes, it was Brienne. Not even one specific event. It was simply all Brienne.” 

“You’re a lucky man to have her loyalty.” 

“And you a lucky woman, Lady Stark.” He heaves a heavy sigh. “Cersei and I, we doomed the realm with what we did. She’s my sister. I love her, will  _ always _ love her. I can’t stop that. But I don’t love her as I used to, don’t worship her like I did. Not when all she dreams of is power, and death. She is no longer the girl I truly loved. She was my chains, for so long.” 

Sansa is silent. She’s always known that Jaime Lannister was different from his sister, with the things Tyrion would let slip when he was deep in his cups back at King’s Landing, but she had never believed him, thought it had been the typical hero worship a younger brother held for his older one.

She knows now he is different. Jaime may have done some absolutely despicable things in his life, things she can never paint as good, but he has been just as much a victim of Cersei as the rest of them. 

“She’s going to die, you know,” she points out. 

He nods. “Yes, I know. She is the only one who can save herself now, and she is too far gone for me to do anything by now. She is determined to go out on her own terms.” 

She tastes the words she is going to say on her tongue before she says them. They taste like biting into a raspberry, tart and free. “I understand, Lannister. I think you are a better man than the world lets you be, than the world expects you to be.” She smiles at him, a true, genuine smile. “I will never be able to forgive you for Bran, but I understand why you did it. You are a better man that I thought you were.” 

Lannister’s face doesn’t change, but those damned green eyes crinkle at her, the ghost of a smile around his eyes. “Thank you, my lady.” 

They sit there, in silence, for a long time after that. They watch the stars, and Sansa has not felt this in a long time. Lannister does not judge, and the feeling is refreshing. 

“You know she’s not going to be a good queen, right?” He breaks the silence, glances over at her. 

She looks back at him, and not for the first time in her life, thinks he looks much more handsome like this. It’s no secret the Lannister twins were golden beauties, but him like this, bearded, hair falling into his face, dressed in Northern garb, he looks more like the man he was meant to be. Like the man Cersei tried to prevent him from becoming. 

“I know.” 

He looks at his hand, or rather, his stump. “I killed the Mad King with this hand. Drove it into his back.” 

“Yes. The act that earned you your infamous name. Kingslayer.” 

“They call me Kingslayer to my back, Lion of Lannister to my face. At least you call me Kingslayer to my face.” 

“I don’t see the point in hiding things that don’t need to be hidden.” 

Lannister looks over at her. “I’m telling you this because I know who she is, Sansa. Not because I seek forgiveness. Not because I want anything from you in return. I have already gotten more from you than I thought possible. Daenerys is just like her father.” 

She furrows her brow. “She might be set on the throne, and a little vicious, but how is she like the Mad King?” 

“Do you know why I killed the Mad King?”

“Half say for you,” she murmurs. “Because you wanted the throne. The other half say for your sister.” 

“And none of them say for all the innocent people in King’s Landing, do they?” Sansa gapes at him, shocked. 

“What?” she whispers, eyes wide. She had thought nothing else able to shock her, but it seems this Lannister has plenty of tricks up his sleeve.

“Aerys was the Mad King, Sansa. Your grandfather and uncle, I watched as they burned alive. I watched as he cooked your grandfather in his own armor, as your uncle strangled himself trying to get to his sword to save him. All for your aunt, because they loved her so much they would have done anything for her.” His eyes are haunted, and she realizes Lannister is no longer looking at the night sky, but at the burnt remains of Rickard Stark.

“When the Lannister army was approaching, Aerys sent everyone to help them. But I knew my father. I knew he never picked the losing side. And I tried to convince the king to take mercy on my father, take mercy on his armies. I knew what Aerys was capable of. I heard what he did to Rhaella every night, whilst standing guard at his door.” He looks at her, eyes bright with tears. 

“I was a boy, Sansa. Far too young to join the Kingsguard. Yet another thing I did for Cersei. And Aerys wouldn’t listen. He opened the gates for my father, and he sacked the city. But I went back anyways. I went back to Aerys, and I caught him with his pyromancer there. I begged him to spare the city this war, to surrender. To go peacefully. He wouldn’t. He told me to bring me my father’s head. And he turned to his pyromancer. ‘Burn them all,’ he said. ‘Burn them all.’”

Her hands are clenched at her sides. “You’ve heard stories of the Mad King, right Sansa? He burned anyone he didn’t like. Burned lords and Hands. Saw traitors everywhere, even where there were none. So he placed caches of wildfire around the city, from the Red Keep to Flea Bottom, near the docks and in the city streets,” he chokes. 

It is like she is seeing him for the first time, as he rubs his left hand over his face, eyes shinier than usual, tormented by memories, traumatized. It is like she is seeing the side of Jaime Lannister he does not show the world, the side that he covers with barbs to protect, to hide his vulnerable heart. To hide his goodness. 

Tears are gathered in his eyes, and he stops, barely able to collect himself, before continuing. “He wanted everyone to die if he couldn’t get the crown. ‘Burn them all,’ he’d say, for hours. ‘Burn them all.’ I couldn’t stand there, watch all those innocent people die. It was the last thing I ever did for someone other than my sister. So I killed the pyromancer, before he could set the city ablaze. And I drove my sword through the Mad King’s back, and watched him fall.” 

“He would have killed half a million people,” she whispers. “The entire population of King’s Landing.” 

He laughs, bitterly. “Yes. And then Robert Baratheon found me like that, the Mad King’s blood on my cloak.” 

“They said they found you, resting on your sword, sitting on the Iron Throne. Your white cloak was stained red.” 

“Just like the stories to make everything sound worse than it was. I was tired, and that damned chair was right there. I have never wanted the Throne, and I never will. But I have been called the Kingslayer my whole life because I saw what Aerys was capable of, and because I did something about it.” He seems lost in another world, full of pain and fire and death. 

“Jaime.” It is the first time she has called him by his name. After all that he has told her, he deserves at least that much from her. Jaime is the only Lannister not obsessed with power, and as Sansa realizes this, she also realizes it makes him the only Lannister she will ever even begin to be able to trust. “You were right.” 

He looks at her. “You are so much like your mother at times it frightens me. I always liked her more, anyways. Your father was noble, but to a fault. He didn’t understand the world we lived it. He judged me for what I did. But your mother, she was the true Stark.” 

She sighs. “He was wrong to do so.” Jaime looks at her in shock, and she smiles bitterly. “Do not get me wrong, I loved my father, with my whole heart. He was one of the best men I have ever known. But his world was far more black and white than most, and he wouldn’t have understood. Still, he was wrong to judge you, Jaime. You are made up of shades of grey, just like me.” She places a hand on his stump. “You saved 500,000 lives at the expense of your own. That is one of the noblest things a man can do.” 

He smiles at her, wry and crooked. “And then I spent the next twenty years of my life sinning.” 

She shrugs. “Yes. But you have been choosing to act on the good part of you.” She watches him, and it is like she is seeing him for the first time. “You are a good man, Jaime. You are a man with honor. You lost sight of that once. Don’t let yourself lose sight of it again.” She smiles. “And if you do, find me. I will always remind you that you are made up of more good than bad.”

“You don’t think less of me?” 

She shakes her head. “I only wish that everyone else knew the truth, so they could see the man I do.” 

He looks at her. “You know why I told you, right?” 

She nods. “Yes. Daenerys has done the same. She burnt Sam’s father and brother, because they wouldn’t bend the knee.” 

Jaime scoffs. “She burnt hundreds of my men alive, without even sparing them a second glance. She destroyed all of the food in the Reach. She does not understand war. Those men were soldiers, yes, and war is bloody. But they had families, and they deserved to have someone look them in their eyes as they died, not incinerate them from above.” 

He drops his voice to a whisper. “Does she even know how many lives she’s stolen?”

Sansa shakes her head. “I don’t even know if she thinks about it.” 

He flexes his left hand. “A man should always remember those whose lives he has taken. Once you start forgetting their faces, you start losing your humanity. It is what happened to my sister, and it happened to me, for a while. It is what is happening to her.” 

“What can we do?” 

Jaime gives her a sad smile. “I’m not sure, my lady. I know you’ll figure it out, though. You are far too smart to sit back and let her rule as she wishes.” 

“You are far too brave to do so, Jaime.” 

“You would be a far better queen than her,” he mutters. She shoots him a look, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look mildly chagrined. “What? It’s the truth. You’re as smart as my sister, and know how to get the lords to listen. But you’re also kind, and the small folk love you. And you rule without fear, but you still have strength.” 

She sighs. “Don’t say this stuff, Jaime.” 

“I’m gonna be around for a little bit longer, Sansa. I’d like to die with a good ruler on the throne.” 

“Maybe not  _ that _ much longer,” she teases. “I hear you’re pretty old.” 

His mouth drops open, and he barks out a laugh. “There’s the famous she-wolf.” 

Sansa laughs, low and serious. “I thought the Lion of Lannister would be more clever.” 

“You’ve got the wrong brother there,” he says, eyes crinkling. 

She taps a finger against her chin. “One-handed, sometimes runs towards dragons without any consideration, zero ability to think, no I think I have the right one.” 

He sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hand. “Tyrion told you?” 

She smacks him on his arm. “What were you thinking, Jaime! It’s a fucking  _ dragon. _ You would have died!” She smacks him once more.

“Ow!” he says. “I got it the first time you hit me.” He shrugs. “I had to try to save my men.” 

She sighs. “Well, at least you didn’t end up like The Hound.” 

He smirks. “True. My devastating good looks would have been destroyed, and that would have been the real tragedy of this whole shitshow.” 

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not nearly as good looking as you think you are, Jaime.”

He gasps. “You’re right. I’m better.” Sansa can’t help it, and she laughs, Jaime joining in. 

Jaime glances over at her. “How are you, with your bastard brother, or cousin, was it?” 

She looks over at him. “How many people know?” 

“Well, since I do, I’d wager pretty much the entire castle? Daenerys is absolutely terrible at keeping things under wraps.” 

“Shut up,” she grumbles. She sighs. “Fine, I guess.” 

He snorts. “Fine, my golden arse. He’s fucked her, but he wants to fuck you, and you want to fuck him, and this whole dance of drama is basically a bigger shitshow than my sister and her armies in King’s Landing.” 

Sansa gapes at him. “Oh shut up! You and Brienne are  _ much _ worse than us.” 

He taps her on the nose. “Ah, see little wolf, that is where you are wrong. Me and Brienne, that’s doomed, because I’m a complete idiot. Jon Snow definitely still wants you.” 

“He’s my mark, Jaime. That doesn’t mean he’s in love with me.” 

Jaime’s lips twist into a bitter smile. “I can’t even remember who my mark was. My father had it burnt off of me and Cersei as soon as it appeared.”

She gapes. “Why?” 

“Because, we couldn’t marry for love. We had to marry for the good of the realm, nothing else. Plus, at the time I thought it romantic. She had a matching scar like me. But you’re lucky, Sansa. You’ve got great friends, and a man who loves you enough to break his own heart to keep you safe.” 

She thinks about that. “Do you count yourself as one of my friends?”

He snorts. “If you want an old man as your friend.” 

“I’ve got plenty of those. What’s the harm in adding one more?” 

He smiles at her, wide and bright and so much like Brienne’s smile, it makes her heart ache. This is her life, watching two people meant to be drift further apart. What a cruel fate the gods have dealt them all. 

But she wishes not to focus on that now, so they sit there, staring at the stars for hours until it is so late she is sure she must head in. 

“I must be going,” she says, standing up. But she is loathe to leave this, this little castle of honesty that she and Jaime have built. She smiles at him, as warm as she can. “Thank you, Ser Jaime.” 

He dips his head. “I’m not sure for what, but of course.” He struggles for a second, then forces the words out. “Thank you.” 

They sound foreign on his tongue and she can tell with all of Jaime’s Lannister lion pride, he is not accustomed to saying those words often. But they are genuine, and that is all that matters.

“Of course.” He picks up his sword and makes to sheathe it, and a thought comes to her. “Have you named your sword yet?” 

“No I—” he stops, looks at the sword, then at the night sky. Her hand touches it, lightly, for a second, before he looks back at her. 

He hands the sword to Sansa. “I wish to call it North Star.” 

She smiles at this, draws her fingers over the Valyrian steel lightly. “A fine name for a sword.” She hands it back to him. “I think it will be wielded by one of the bravest men in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

He takes it back from her, and smiles, sheathing it. 

Sansa smoothes out her skirts, and she breathes. There is a peace in the air, an understanding that has passed between the two of them. 

It will remain here, in a broken tower underneath the night sky, on the day after they have fought the dead, and lived. 

**xliii. the army of the living**

“Our men are tired,” Sansa insists. He looks at her. It is not just their men who are tired. She is as well. 

Sansa has been holding herself and all of Winterfell, all of the  _ North,  _ together for the past two years. She has been nothing but strong and stone, and suddenly Jon cannot begin to understand how tiring this must be for her.

That’s not to say she somehow still finds time to sit by Theon’s bedside, nursing him back to health, visiting him whenever she can. He had awoken three days prior, after being unconscious for three weeks, and he knows Sansa has been overcome with relief. 

He wonders how important the Greyjoy boy is to her. 

But right now Sansa is right, as always. “Our armies are tired. They do not want to fight for another cause so soon. This is Cersei’s plan. To weaken us by fighting, and not sending help. Now, we have bruised and battered men who need time to recover, to regroup, and she has the entire Lannister army at her strength. 

“We have a dragon,” Daenerys says simply. Sansa huffs in frustration. 

“Your grace, I think we need to think about this carefully. I know Cersei. She is far more calculating than one would think her to be. She has a plan for everything. She will die before she gives up the throne, and she does not care who she takes along with her.” 

She glances at Lannister, speaking silently. He seems to understand what she is saying, and tips his head forward. Jon wonders when they had become friends, but more and more, he sees Sansa look to the man, for advice, for protection, for wisdom. It astounds him, how Sansa manages to utilize the skills of everyone around her to succeed. 

“I have been waiting for my destiny for over twenty years. I will not wait any longer.” She nods at Jon. “Prepare the armies.” 

He nods, and follows her out of the room, but not before glancing back at Sansa, who is still staring at the map with her brows furrowed. She glances up and locks eyes with him. He wonders what is swirling in those impassive depths, but he knows if he hasn’t figured it out by now, he never will.

**xliv. the caches of wildfire**

Jon leaves the room, and Sansa is sitting there, staring at the table with anger threatening to burst from her tongue. 

Before he leaves, following Daenerys out the door, Varys stops by Jaime and Sansa, dipping head and murmuring low enough to be missed by everyone else, “Some of my little spies report that Cersei has not called the Lannister army to King’s Landing yet. Apparently, they aren’t even standing by.”

With that, he leaves, sweeping out the door. Jaime looks at Sansa. “That is not like my sister.” 

She nods. “I know. Why doesn’t anyone else believe me when I say she is not a threat to be taken lightly?” 

He looks at her, with the same green eyes that haunt her in her dreams sometimes. “I do, your grace.” 

“Quiet,” she hisses, glancing around the room. “There are Daenerys’s soldiers are everywhere here. Do not let anyone hear you say that.” 

He shrugs. “It’s true, but perhaps I will hold off on it until she leaves.” He glances down at the map, tracing his finger around King’s Landing. “Casterly Rock is too far away for her to call all of the soldiers there before Daenerys reaches the city. And there are plenty of reserve forces scattered around the continent. The forces in the city and the Queensguard are not nearly enough. Why would she wait?” 

Sansa glances at where he is pointing, and then back up at Jaime. She can see the moment when the realization dawns on him, and he looks up at her, horror overtaking his face. “She doesn’t care about protecting herself.” 

She understands what he is saying before he even finishes his thought. “Because she doesn’t care about living,” she breathes. 

Jaime paces the room, running his hand through his hair. “The Sept of Baelor. How she killed The Tyrells and the Sparrow. It’s Aerys all over again.” 

“Wildfire.” Panic tears through Sansa. “When Daenerys burns even an inch of that city with dragon fire…”

“The entire place will go up in flames,” Jaime finishes. “There won’t  _ be _ a city left to rule. She’ll have killed half a million people, with help from my sister.” 

“We need to tell her. Tell her not to use dragon fire,” Sansa says, bolting up. 

“Will she believe you?” Jaime asks simply. Sansa stops in her tracks, cursing the truth of his words. “Even if she did believe you, would she care? She wants the thrones, Sansa. Over everything else.”

“She’d care,” Sansa insists. “But she might not be able to stop them. Her soldiers. This is war.” 

Jaime nodded. “And Drogon. He might set something on fire accidentally. It wouldn’t make a difference if we told her. She’d just become suspicious of Varys.” 

“How do we stop her?” Sansa asks. “We need to stop her.” She glances over at Jaime, who’s looking at his golden hand, jaw set firmly.  _ He’s already made up his mind,  _ she thinks. Of course he would. 

Looking at him, Sansa feels as though she is traveling back in time. For a second, she is not looking at the war hardened, battle weary man he is, with one hand, but the 17 year old boy who made the decision no one else could, and who would suffer for it the rest of his life. 

“Jaime,” she says as she stands up, moving in front of him. He looks down at his shoes.

“My lady.” He looks at her, hair falling into his eyes, and she closes her eyes, trying to bite back the tears that prick at her eyes. 

“You must go.” 

“I am the only one who has a  _ chance _ of convincing her, Sansa. She doesn’t want to die, not truly.” 

“I know, Jaime.” She breathes a sigh. Yet another trusted person who is forced to leave her, for the betterment of the world. Jaime is the one other person who understands Cersei, just like Theon is the only other person who understands Ramsay. She is likely sending him to his death, to burn alongside his sister. 

She fervently hopes Brienne will forgive her.  _ Please, Brienne. You and Arya are all I have left. Don’t leave me too. _

She nods. “Go, Jaime. But promise me something.” 

“Anything, Sansa.” 

“You will say goodbye to Brienne. And you will promise me you will try to come back alive.” She gives him a small smile. “You have somehow become someone I trust, and while I do not know how that has happened, I would like to make sure it lasts longer than a moon’s turn.” 

Jaime nods. “Of course, Sansa.” He stops, and then gives her a small smile. “Thank you, your grace. I think you have saved me far better than I could have saved myself.” 

**xlv. the journey to king’s landing**

He watches Daenerys give the order to burn Varys, and he closes his eyes. The stench of burning flesh is terrible, and he hopes he will never get used to it like Daenerys has. 

Daenerys turns around to face Tyrion, anger in her eyes. “This is what happens when you betray me, when you question me as a ruler. Tread lightly, Lannister.” 

Jon clenches his eyes shut, and watches as Tyrion glances at him, sadness in his eyes. Daenerys stalks away, fire licking at her. 

“You know who she reminds me of?” Tyrion says softly. “Her father.” 

Jon glances at him sharply. “Why do you all keep saying that? She is nothing like Aerys. Varys was a betrayer. He had no loyalty to anyone but himself. She was right in burning him.” 

Tyrion looks at him with tired eyes. “You were barely two months old when Aerys died. You know nothing about what he was like as king. My brother has been haunted by him for years. The realm has been haunted by what he did for decades. Aerys burned all those who stood against him, and Daenerys has done nothing but that for the past three years. She burnt the Tarlys alive, because they wouldn’t bend the knee, for no other reason than she wanted to make an example out of them.” 

“She freed the slaves. She doesn’t want to kill innocents in King’s Landing.” 

“Varys has loyalty to one thing. The good of the realm. He truly believed Daenerys would be a good ruler, otherwise he wouldn’t have risked his own life to bring me to her.” Tyrion sighs, and looks at the pin on his lapel. “Understand something, Jon Snow. You should  _ only _ be loyal to the good of the realm. Rulers can turn bad far too quickly.”

“Tyrion,” Jon says. The Imp stops in his tracks, looks back at him. “I thought you might want to know something before I told Daenerys, if I have to tell her at all.”

“Your brother. We’ve captured him.” 

**xlvi. the most honorable knight in the realm**

She finds Brienne in the godswood, sitting, and sharpening her sword. 

Sansa always wondered what a godswood felt like to a Southerner. And yet, Brienne almost seems at home here, silent as the wind whispers through the leaves, still. She looks more a statue than a woman, but then again, she always looked more man than woman. 

Sansa steps forward, and the snow crunches underneath her shoe. Brienne doesn’t even startle, just turns around calmly, a hand going to her sword, the lion pommel on it shining. 

“My lady.” She makes to stand, but Sansa waves her hand. 

“No, please.” She takes a seat next to Brienne on a rock, so much like that scene before, but with a different broken heart. 

“He told you?” she asks. 

Brienne shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she whispers, voice breaking. “He said he came all the way North for honor. For my honor. To fight for the living.” 

She looks at Sansa, and Sansa cannot help but connect to this woman, this girl who has had her heart trampled on by far too many people. 

Both she and Brienne had learned to protect their hearts from a young age, and when they had thought it safe to open them up a little, had only gotten hurt. She wonders if Brienne is strong enough to open up her heart again. Sansa doesn’t know if she’ll be able to. 

“Brienne, you know he had to go?” she says softly. 

Brienne shakes her head. “I thought, after the War…” she trails off. “I don’t know. We never did anything, but still.” 

Sansa curses mentally. _ Really, Jaime? You had to keep it a secret from Brienne even as you were leaving? Honestly? _

She understands why, though. He said goodbye, but if Jaime had told Brienne, she would have wanted to come with him. Sansa knows Jaime would have never let that happen, never let Brienne burn alongside him. 

“He cares about you, Brienne. Truly.” 

Brienne scoffs. “My lady, I would never argue with you, but I’m afraid you are mistaken. No matter how much he cares for me, he loves her more. I don’t think he knows how to love anyone else more than Cersei.” 

Sansa has to bite her tongue from bursting out about how wrong Brienne is. She wonders how she cannot see it, how Brienne is the  _ only _ thing left that Jaime truly loves. He has to protect her, at all costs. 

He has to protect her because he loves her more than his own life. 

“Brienne, trust me on this, please,” Sansa pushes. “You may not think Jaime loves you, but he most certainly respects you. I’ve gotten to know Jaime, this past month. I believe he’s changed. There’s a reason, I know there is.” 

Brienne smiles sadly, blue eyes swimming with doubt. But she pats Sansa’s hand anyways, thanking her. 

They sit in silence, and Sansa cannot help but wonder what it is about the both of them that draws them to men who sacrificed everything for them, when they never even asked for that. 

**xlvii. the queenslayer**

When they reach the city, it’s silent. So silent, in fact, that Jon immediately knows something is wrong. 

He scans the top of the city, one hand on Longclaw, as Drogon flies above them. The boat they are on is shaky, and not even the Iron Fleet can be seen. 

The gates of the city are open, and Jon’s lip curls in disgust as he realizes that Cersei intends to use her subjects as shields for her throne. Something catches the corner of his eye, however, and he glances over to see a contraption. It takes him a second to process is, but by then the arrow is already flying. 

It misses, and Drogon shrieks, whirling to the side. Daenerys whirls around and glances at her dragon, who opens his mouth to take aim at the machine. 

But the second arrow flies, hits its mark, true. Drogon screeches in pain and plummets to the ground, but not before releasing one last breath of fire, which burns the contraption, and Qyburn, alive. 

Daenerys yells in anger, tears streaming from her eyes, and her fleet pushes forward. The army storms the city, sacking it, and citizens around them are cowering in fear. 

Jon himself refuses to draw his sword. There are no soldiers, simply innocent people. He dodges swords and shattered windows, helps women and children into their homes. He will not stand by and watch this. 

He makes his way to the Red Keep, and only now pulls out Longclaw, fighting many Goldcloaks. He sees much less than he expected, however, and when he stumbles upon the throne room, he understands why. 

Euron Greyjoy lays dead, bleeding out in front of the hall, and Jon thinks this is an utterly fitting end for him. Blood, blood, blood. When has the throne given anything to anyone besides blood and death? What kindness has the throne spread? What good has it ever done? 

Power, power, power. 

Jon walks into the throne room to a scene he thinks Robert Baratheon must have seen years prior. 

Lannister is there, dagger in hand, blood shining on the blade. He is on his knees, head bowed. Cersei Lannister is crumpled to the floor, eyes open, but not seeing. 

Lannister barely makes any indication that Jon has entered the room, simply tilting his head to the side. “I killed her,” he says, voice hoarse. 

Jon wants to believe him, and so he steps closer. But the line across her neck seems just a little too shallow, the blood spatter on the floor instead of her clothes. He looks around, and sees the bottle lying next to Lannister’s cloak, which is now stained with the blood of his sister. 

“No,” he says. “She killed herself.” 

Lannister closes his eyes and then opens them, looking directly at Jon. He has never seen such pain in another man’s eyes, such despair and sadness. He wonders what sort of tragedy Jaime Lannister has been a part of, and he knows that the man carries it around with him, just as Jon does. 

“I gave her the bottle.” 

“You gave her an option.” And Jon wants to be angry at Lannister, truly does, but he cannot find it in himself. The way the man winces, and looks away from Cersei’s body reveals everything he needs to know. “You gave her a way to die on her own terms.” 

“She would have died than give up her throne,” Lannister says, voice breaking. “I knew she would have died, she would have killed her child, rather than give up her throne.” 

He brushes the bottle away with his golden hand, and it rolls to the corner of his room. Suddenly seized in a frenzy, Lannister drops his dagger and works at the leather straps of his golden hand, trying to take it off. 

Jon leans forward, stops Lannister’s shaking fingers with his own. He helps him undo the straps, and the hand comes off, leaving a smooth wrist. Lannister uses his other hand and tosses the golden hand across the room, where it crashes against the wall and to the ground. “She lied to me about our child, and she would have rather died than give up that  _ bloody chair!”  _ Lannister breaks then, sobbing, curling in on himself. Jon does not know what to do, but Lannister seems to pull himself together rather quickly. 

“You loved her, so you let her die.” 

Lannister shakes his head. “I loved who she used to be. I just wanted to spare her a painful death.” 

Jon is quiet then. “Small mercies, Lannister.” 

“You won’t tell her, will you? That I gave Cersei…” 

Jon shakes his head. “Aye. I will tell no one. Some kindness is yours. And I do not think this will be the same as Aerys. People will likely thank you for it.” 

Lannister sighs. “I don’t know why I bothered. Daenerys is going to have me executed anyways.” 

Jon frowns. “That won’t happen, Lannister. I might not like you, but for some reason, Sansa does. She won’t let anything happen to you.” 

Lannister looks over at him. “You know who the true Queen is, don’t you?”

He wonders if the pretense needs to be kept up, now that the war has, for all intents and purposes, been won. But then he wonders if he will be keeping up this pretense for his entire life. 

He’s done. Done with supporting Daenerys, done with his blindness, done with being away from Winterfell and his family. He’s just done. 

“I do, Lannister.” He glances over at the man, still bloodstained, the both of them so weary from all the battles they have fought. “I can only pray that this is the last war we both will see.” 

**xlviii. the queen in king’s landing**

She, Bran, and Arya arrive in King’s Landing, and immediately, it is like the throne room has chilled, getting much colder. 

Daenerys sits on the Iron Throne, but instead of sitting straight up, she’s almost slumped, tapping her fingers against the arm and staring at the window, only jolting to attention when Arya clears her throat. 

“Lady Sansa. Lady Arya. Lord Bran.” 

“Your grace,” Sansa says, curtsying. Arya doesn’t, of course, and Bran just stares at Daenerys. 

“I’ve called you here to discuss the matter of the North,” Daenerys says. 

“It will be part of the Seven Kingdoms for as long as I am queen.” 

Sansa clenches her jaw. To make a scene in front of the queen would not be advised, but she didn’t have dragons. Sansa wasn’t afraid of her, had never really been afraid of her. She’d learned long ago that fear wasn’t as effective as many had hoped. 

She nods. “Very well, your grace, I ask for one thing, though.” 

Daenerys smirks. “And what would that be? A reminder, Lady Sansa. Do not test my generosity.” 

“I only ask that you allow my cousin, Jon Snow, to return North.” 

Daenerys’s eyes flash, and her lip curls as she leans forward. “You ask for too much, Lady Stark. He is your cousin, but he is also my nephew, and my partner. I should think he would want to stay with his queen here. By  _ my _ side.”

Sansa simply smiles, and quirks an eyebrow. “Perhaps we should let Jon decide for himself.” 

Daenerys leans back in her chair and crosses one leg over the other, tilting her head, gaze challenging Sansa’s. “Very well. I shall ask him.” 

She nods to one of the Goldcloaks in the corner. “Bring Jon here.” 

While they wait, Sansa glances over at Arya, who scans the room with narrowed eyes. “I wonder who her council will be? Probably some people who won’t disagree with her at all,” she murmurs, hand tightening on her dagger. 

“Hush, Arya,” she whispers back. “We cannot anger the queen now.” 

Arya smirks. “You’ve already done that, Lady Sansa. But I like it.” 

She laughs lightly, but stops when the doors open. Jon walks in, looking just like he did all those days ago when he left her behind in Winterfell. 

“Sansa. Arya. Bran,” he breathes, rushing forward. He grips Bran tightly, although the boy never reciprocates his hugs, and then goes to hug Arya. She clutches him tightly and then steps back, and he messes up her hair. She smiles up at him, and for a moment, Sansa is reminded of a 16 year old boy and his 11 year old little sister. 

He moves to Sansa and clutches her tightly, and she relishes it, this hug. Daenerys cannot deny him this. If she did, Sansa would make sure she regretted it. 

She’s the first to pull away from him and gives him a smile. “The queen has a question for you, Jon.”

Daenerys smiles at him, and for the first time, Sansa can see her smile is softer, more private. She feels a slight twinge of guilt. The dragon queen truly does love Jon. Or, at the very least, she cares for him.

She closes her eyes and pushes down her pain.  _ I love him as well,  _ she thinks. There is so much pain there, pain from years of unhealed wounds and scars that she let scab over, scars that she picks at so they bleed. Sansa is as cold as the North, as unforgiving as the winter that sweeps through Winterfell, as fierce as a wolf. Sometimes she thinks of those traumas, rips the scabs open to see if she can feel anything again. She must take a moment, and it’s difficult, but sometimes she loses herself in memories of Arya and Bran, in memories of Rickon and Mother and Father, in memories of Robb, Robb, Robb,  _ always _ Robb, to remind her that she was loved, at least, once upon a time. Those memories, they help her feel something other than pain. And of course, there is Jon. It is Jon, at the end, every time, and she must close her eyes and remember. He is ever so easy to love, ever so easy for her to lose herself in. For the sake of the both of them, Sansa will have to learn how to love from afar, how to love through pain. 

It had never been something she was particularly good at.

But Sansa chokes her pain down, seals the emotion in her heart behind a safe, like she has been doing for  _ years,  _ and waits for Daenerys to speak. 

“Jon, your cousin here has asked that I allow you to return to Winterfell. I was not under the impression you were here under any sort of pressure. I explained to her that I believed you would rather stay here, with me.” 

Jon looks a bit like a deer in headlights, but Sansa knows better than to laugh. “We all just want you back home, Jon,” she says softly. “I understand if you’d rather stay here. But you will always be welcome back in Winterfell.” She gives him a smile. “It is, and will  _ always _ be, your home.” 

Jon looks at her then, black eyes filled with so much emotion her breath threatens to catch in her throat, and he doesn’t even look at Daenerys when he says, “Your grace, I would be honored if you would be so kind so as to allow me to return home with my family. I have been gone from them for so long. I know you understand how important family is.” 

Arya cries out in joy and rushes to hug Jon, but Sansa shifts her gaze to Daenerys. She catches the queen just as her face shifts, from shock and anger,  _ betrayal,  _ to an impassive slate. “Very well,” she says, voice noticeably colder and clipped. “You shall return to Winterfell.” 

And Jon hugs Sansa, but her eyes are on the dragon queen. Her gaze is as cool as the snow in the godswood.

**xlix. the halls of winterfell**

It’s quieter in Winterfell than it normally is, and Jon finally feels like he can breathe. For the first time in two years, he is away from the dragon queen, away from her stifling influence over him, away from her sharp words and threats. 

He is home, and he doesn’t think he will ever leave it again. 

Tormund stays just long enough to bid him goodbye, and Jon finds himself immensely saddened by this, which he wasn’t expecting. Tormund had become a friend, someone he could rely on and trust. He’s lost far too many of those already. 

Sam stays, though, with Gilly and Little Sam and Little Jon. He stays as Winterfell needs a new maester, and when Sam asks Sansa if he can stay, her answering smile is warmer than the sun in the sky. 

He hasn’t realized how chilly Sansa had become, until the dragon queen leaves and it is all Northmen. She softens, becoming almost kinder. 

He hears the whispers, the low way people bow to her, the grumblings of how she should release them from Daenerys’s hold. Sansa, of course, makes no indication that she acknowledges these rumors, which Jon supposes is the most intelligent course of action. 

When he asks her where Jaime and Brienne have gone, she simply smirks and informs them that they have returned to Tarth to settle some matters with Brienne’s home. 

_ Together? _ he thinks, and Sansa can clearly see where his mind is going because she simply pats him on the arm and gives him a smile. 

The most surprising, however, is Arya. He finds her training one day in the courtyard, and smiles at her. 

“You’ve seen so much of the world now, and you want to stay here in Winterfell?” 

Arya smiles at him, sheathes Needle. She glances over at Sansa, who is discussing the harvest and storages with Yohn Royce. “Yes. All I’ve wanted for years was to come back home. I don’t think I truly understood that until I was back here.” Her gaze softens. “You are here, Jon. Sansa and Bran as well. I’ve learned to stop taking family for granted, and I’ll not go off gallivanting around the world over staying here with them.” 

“Plus,” she adds. “The only person I trust besides myself to protect Sansa is Brienne, and she’s not here.” 

Jon’s smile slips at this. All his life, he’s wanted to protect his family, and now Arya, one of the strongest people in the world, thinks him unable to do that?

She rushes to correct herself, though. “Not like that, Jon. You’re not just Sansa’s protector, but you’re one of the last male Starks. Your responsibility and duty is important. You cannot be Sansa’s guard. You have to be her partner, you have to help her lead the North.” 

The words soothe some of the sting, but Jon gives Arya a wry smile. “She doesn’t need anyone’s help. And anyways, you’re her partner, not me.” 

Arya shakes her head. “Sansa’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, it’s true, and she’s fantastic at doing things on her own. But she’s so smart because she knows who she has on her side. Jon, she will always need us. And we will always need her.” 

She hugs him then, openly in the court of Winterfell. “There are no more dragons, Jon,” she whispers. “There are no more dragons, but there will always be wolves. We are all that remains of the North, and we must stick together.” 

She pulls back, looks him in the eyes. “You have me mistaken, Jon. I am Sansa’s shadow, and she is my other half. But  _ you _ are her partner, the one who she looks to when she needs a hand. Never forget that. You will always be the rock Sansa leans on.” 

**l. the decision**

When it happens, it is born of loneliness and snow, of beggars and hatred and comfort. It is born of wind and winter roses, of fires and empty stone halls, and of empty crypts and tears. 

Sansa wonders, vaguely, what will change. 

It happens one night, late in her room. 

She and Jon are in her solar, and they receive news that an entire group of Reach refugees have arrived. 

Sansa sighs, impossibly tired. “Thank you, Ser Davos,” she says, rubbing at her temples. “Please put them in the remaining rooms we have in Winterfell. It is late enough, so unfortunately, we cannot disturb the rest of the castle. But I will see that the rest of them receive appropriate accommodations in the morning.” 

Davos nods. “As you wish, my lady.” He pulls the door shut behind him softly, and Jon looks over at from where papers are spread out in front of them. 

“Are those the last rooms left in Winterfell, Sansa?” when she doesn’t respond, he sighs. “Sansa, we can’t keep taking people in. I know you want to help them, but these are people from the Reach. They’re not even Northmen.” 

Her eyes flash. “Don’t tell me that anyone seeking protection in the North is unwelcome, Jon. I will not hear it. She paces the room. “I’ll have some of the Northmen start building temporary shelters for the refugees. We have enough grain to spare, and I’ll write to the Prince of Dorne and Sweetrobin, see if there is something we can trade for more food, in case more people come North.” 

“Sansa,” he says softly. He stands up and steps forward, almost reaching out to her before letting his hand fall loosely by his side. “You don’t need to take care of everyone.” 

“I do, Jon.” She is so very,  _ very _ tired, and she wants to relax, to take a break. She can’t afford to, not while the queen ignores her starving subjects. “Father always said a lord must take care of all his subjects as if they were his own family.” 

“Your father and mother would be so proud of you, Sansa. But they wouldn’t want you to tired yourself out like this.” 

She closes her eyes, and they  _ ache _ from exhaustion. She wants to cry out in sheer bliss and feels as though she could sleep right there. “I have no choice, Jon. Until your queen realizes what is happening in her lands, I must be the leader these people deserve. They have nowhere else to turn to, and I will not turn them away.”

“Sansa—”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do, Jon.” 

He crosses his arms. “No, I’m perfectly happy just sitting here watching you waste away. It’s quite entertaining.” 

“I am my own woman, Jon. I know my limits.” 

“If you knew your limits, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

“Jon, I swear to the gods—”

Jon steps forward and takes her hands into his own. “You are so much like your mother sometimes.” 

Sansa opens her eyes and smiles. “I think that is the highest compliment you have ever given me.” She’s lost in thoughts of her mother when something occurs to her. “The southern people fleeing here...why don’t we rebuild Mother’s sept?” 

Jon quirks an eyebrow. “It was destroyed when the Greyjoys took Winterfell, but I think that it would be important for these southern people if they had their gods to pray to,” she explains.

Jon smiles are her. “You are endlessly kind, Sansa.” He steps closer, brushes his lips over her forehead. “And you will always be my true queen,” he murmurs. 

Sansa stares at him in shock, heart thumping. “What?” she whispers. 

Jon frowned. “Daenerys. I only bent the knee to save you all. He sighs, stepping away from her and rubbing a hand over his face. “She threatened you, Sansa. Not in so many words, no, but she threatened you. She was willing to let the Army of the Dead travel as far south as she wanted them to. I had to protect you and Arya and Bran. I did it, and I would do it a thousand times over if it meant saving you all.”

“Jon, why didn’t you  _ tell _ me?” 

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk anyone knowing. If she discovered that I was only deceiving her...Winterfell would have been burnt to ashes.” 

“I said all those cruel things about you.” Guilt washes over Sansa, threatens to overwhelm her. She presses a hand to her stomach, suddenly nauseous. 

“Jon, can you ever forgive me for what I said?” 

“There’s nothing to forgive, Sansa. If anything, I should be asking for your forgiveness.” 

She smiles then. “Alright. Then we forgive each other and move on.”

Jon sighs. “I don’t know if I can do that, Sansa. I hurt you, like I’ve never hurt you before. You lost trust in me.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them they are so full of pain. 

Oddly enough, Sansa thinks of Jaime, thinks of regrets and mistakes and death, thinks of the pain men must carry. She wonders if a broken heart was penance for them, was the gods’ way of punishing them for all they had done, all of the sins they had committed. Jon and Jaime carry that pain, that darkness, inside of them. It is a part of them she will never understand, but Sansa is thankful for her friendship with Jaime, suddenly, because she knows she won’t convince Jon otherwise. But she can still get him to listen to her. 

“Jon, I know you don’t think yourself a good man.” 

“I am a man without honor, Sansa,” he rasps, looking away from her. 

She nods. “Jon, do you trust me?” 

His head snaps back towards hers, and he answers, “Of course,” although he looks confused. 

“If you trust me, then you must trust that I have full faith in what I am saying. Trust that I believe what I am saying.” She steps a little closer to him. “You are the most honorable man in the world, Jon. You are the best man I have ever known. If you cannot believe these things about me, please trust that I believe them. Trust that I  _ trust you. _ ”

Jon places a hand on her waist, right where her dress is tight, and she sucks in a breath. He is looking at her like one looks at all the stars in the sky, like one looks at the moon, like a man looks at the face of his last hope. 

He is looking at her like she is everything in the world and nothing else matters, and Sansa can hardly bear it. 

But she has been through too much to leave him now, in his time of need. He leans forward, presses his forehead to hers. “You smell good.” he whispers. He’s so close she would barely have to move to kiss him, but she will never do that. Her head is dizzy, so very very dizzy. She can barely think. 

“It’s lemons,” she replies dumbly, unable to think of anything else to say back. His hand curves more firmly around her waist, settling along the back of her neck. 

“The last man I was with was Ramsay,” she finds herself saying. She flushes instantly, cursing her Tully genes. Jon, all Stark, doesn’t even redden a little, but he tenses just a bit. “He was the only man I’ve ever been with.” 

Jon’s grip on her waist tightens. “I hate that he touched you. I hate that he did what he did to you. I hate that you can feel his hands on your skin sometimes.” 

She leans back, looks him in the eyes. “Would you change that for me?” 

Jon’s mouth drops open, but the words are out there, and the longer she thinks about it, Sansa has no intention of taking them back. She loves Jon, and so this wouldn’t do anything to change that. Jon surely craves the touch of a woman, craves comfort, and even if he doesn’t love her, no man would turn down a willing woman in his bed. She is willing to warm his bed for all the nights to come, as much as he’ll have her. 

Besides, she’ll need to provide Winterfell with an heir, since Bran cannot, and Sansa would  _ never _ force Arya to marry unless she wanted to. She would never put her sister through what she went through. 

And Sansa is too much like her mother, sometimes. The one willing to suffer so her family is happy. The one willing to have a child, to provide the heir, so her sister can live an easier life than her for the rest of her days. Sansa is too much like her father, sometimes. Willing to do whatever her people need her to do, even if that means having a child with the only man she will ever love, the only man she has ever loved, and the only man she cannot have.

She closes her eyes. Suffering is pain, but sometimes it gets a little easier when she reminds herself what she is suffering for. 

But there is no pain here, nothing but the chance for something new. Nothing will ever truly wipe Ramsay from her skin, this she knows. But she’s sick and tired of letting that man control her life, dictate what she allows to be done to her. Joffrey and Baelish and Ramsay, they deserve no more time manipulating her, controlling her. 

She smiles at Jon. “Please, Jon. I’m done letting them control my life. Show me it can be good. I trust you. I trust only you.” 

Jon groans then. “Sansa, please. You can’t. We are brother and sister. What will people think?” 

She shakes her head. “You have not been my brother in a long time, Jon. You have been so more than that.” She smirks, then, raises an eyebrow. “There have been rumors of you and I for long, even when we were siblings. Besides, do you think people will really voice their concerns with the former King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell?”

Jon huffs a laugh. “I suppose not.” He searches her face, and every time he does that Sansa wonders if he will find what he is looking for. “Are you sure?” 

She nods. “Just, no kissing. I can’t.” The request doesn’t seem to faze Jon, and he only nods before sweeping her into his arms, pressing closer to him. 

She doesn’t understand why he does this, until his fingers are working at the back of her dress, and he is pressing kisses down the line of her throat. 

Sansa is immediately dizzy, and her own fingers grip Jon’s jerkin, pulling at it impatiently. She has never felt anything like this before, this kind of potent, overwhelming pleasure, and she sways unsteadily before trying to get her bearings and pulling Jon’s jerkin off just as her dress slips to the floor. 

She pulls away from his and his mouth and strips his shirt off, and for the first time in her life, she is faced with the scars that Jon holds on his body, and he is faced with hers. 

She brushes her fingers over the one that sits right above his heart, the one that killed him, and she clenches her jaw. If he hadn’t killed all of them, she would have hunted down each and every one of them who hurt him, torn into them like the wolf she is so they regretted ever hurting her family.

She looks up, blue eyes meeting grey, but Jon is looking at her scars with the same type of dark vengeance she feels. “Jon,” she says softly. He lifts his eyes to hers, and his muscles are tense with anger.

“I wish to kill them.” 

“They are all dead, Jon,” she whispers, but she understands. “You are the one here right now, the one I trust. You have something they never have. You have honor.” 

“I don’t deserve you, Sansa.” 

“Fuck that,” she says. “We deserve each other.” 

Jon’s eyes darken at that, and he walks forward, pushing her back against the bed. She sits down on it, and he joins her, and then he’s kissing down the line of her neck again, to her shoulder, hands pushing her back into the bed, and she wants to urge him on, but then he moves his hand up anc cups her breast, and she loses all of her thoughts. 

It takes no time at all, and soon Sansa is as naked as the day she was born, Jon only in his small clothes. He seems to be obsessed with kissing her, because he cannot kiss her lips, and sucks marks all over her body, onto her breast, the side of her lip. 

These are not like the scars Ramsay gave her. These are marks made of adoration, made of care. Sansa wishes they would not fade away. She shakes her head and smirks. She wants her share of fun too. She swings a leg over Jon’s hip and rolls over, straddling him. She can feel him through his small clothes, hard, and it sends a bolt of need through her so intense she can barely see straight. 

She falls forward instead, pressing kisses to the line of his jaw, brushing her lips over all the scars she can reach. “Sansa,” Jon groans. She smirks. “Sansa, don’t tease me.” 

She sits up and flips her hair over her shoulder, suddenly confident with the way his eyes darken, the way he is looking at her. This is Jon. He would never hurt her. Not if he could help it. “No, I think I’m liking you when I’m teasing you.” 

Jon fucking  _ growls,  _ and flips them over once more, pressing his chest against Sansa’s, eyes boring into hers. “I think I’ll like you when I tease you,” he says, hand moving down her body. 

His fingers brush her clit once, and Sansa gasps, almost starts crying. “Stop,” she gasps. Jon stills instantly, and Sansa feels tears prick at her eyes. She buries her head in his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out.  _ Ramsay, Ramsay, Ramsay.  _ Sansa is more haunted than a graveyard. 

She hates it, because it seems like he is always there, like he is forever lurking in the shadows of her life. There are halls of Winterfell she must stand in front of for fifteen minutes before she can make herself go in. There are things she never allows the servants to say in front of her, there are a million pieces of her life that are now poisoned by Ramsay, that are devastated by him. Sometimes, Sansa thinks she is the tainted one, the most unworthy Stark. 

She is the only weak child of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, and the idea makes her want to die, want to unravel. She wants nothing more than to banish Ramsay from her life, to cut him out of her completely, to burn every piece of her that he touched from her body. She wants nothing in her life that reminds her of him anymore, but she has long since accepted that this cannot be. It is a hard truth to accept. Ramsay is a ghost, someone who deserves to be nothing more than that in her life. 

“It’s all right, Sansa.” He smoothes her hair. “You never have anything to apologize for. It’s me, Sansa. Look at me.” 

She pulls back and looks him in the eyes, those eyes that always hold so much for her. The scar that she won’t deny she loves and hates. “It’s Jon, Sansa, and I would rather die than hurt you.” 

She knows this is true. She had asked Jon to trust her, and she must give him that same trust. She nods. He brushes a piece of her hair back from her face. “I know. Please, Jon. Please.” 

“Sansa.” 

She bucks her hips, pressing against him once more. “ _ Please. _ ”

Jon groans and his hand returns to where it was, pressing against her folds. Sansa looks at him the entire time, and it’s easier. It’s not Ramsay, but it’s Jon, and then suddenly the pressure is building. 

There is pleasure then, the kind that makes her see stars, and she blinks roughly, sluggishly. “Jon,” she gasps, clutching at his shoulders. 

He thrusts two fingers into her, and she keens, arching off of the bed. His fingers rub at a spot inside of her, and she can barely take it, the way her body seems to react so violently to his touch. He then withdraws suddenly, and she cries out. 

“Why?” 

He smirks at her, and slides down her body, pressing kisses to her stomach along the way. “Just wait, my queen.” 

It is the first time he’s called her this, and it brings a smile to her face, and she chuckles. “Oh, so now you call me queen.” 

Jon laughs just before he presses a kiss to her clit, and Sansa moans, fingers digging into the furs. This, this pleasure is so sharp, it’s almost painful. Jon curves his fingers into her again, and she cries out. She closes her eyes, but the motion is too distressing, so she forces them to open and looks down. 

He laps at her like a man dying of thirst, and she pushes into him, begging.  _ More, more, more.  _ She never knew anything could be this good, and she barely restrains a scream when he brushes his teeth against her clit, and traces her folds with his tongue. It’s far too good, and she needs it. 

Jon looks up at her, and their eyes connect, and it is what undoes her. She falls apart, flying and then crashing to the ground, writhing underneath him. His mouth is still feasting on her, until Sansa grabs him, pulls him away. “Too much,” she says weakly, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. 

Jon’s shaking with laughter, and she feels more than hears it. “Was that good for you?” 

She smacks him, but smiles. “Thank you, Jon.” Her smiles turns just the slightest bit wicked. “I don’t think it’s fair if I have all of the fun, do you?” She trails a hand down his chest underneath his smallclothes, wraps her hand around him. 

He groans and says, “I don’t need anything in return, Sansa,” even as he bucks into her hand.

She leans up and leaves a light kiss on the curve of his cheek. “I want to, Jon. Please.” 

He looks at her then, eyes blown wide, and nods. She pushes his small clothes off and moves her hand up and down his cock, and Jon bites the curve of her neck and shoulder. 

He pushes her hand away quickly, though. “Keep doing that, and I’ll spill my pants like a greenboy.” 

Sansa pouts. She takes her hand and runs it through his hair, admiring the curls, the blackness of it all. “I missed you,” she confesses. Her heart breathes, thumps a little steadier after she says it. “When you were with the dragon queen. I hated that I got you for less than a year, and then she held you with her. She controlled you, for so long. I missed you.” 

He brushes back a strand of hair, hand cupping her cheek. “I missed you more than I knew i was able to miss someone. I kept failing like I failed you, that I couldn’t protect you. So many bad things happened to you while I was gone, Sansa, and if I had known, I wouldn’t have hesitated breaking my vows and fleeing, returning to you.”

“I am here now, Jon. You are here. We are here together. Remember that.” 

Jon shifts, and he is pressing against her. She gasps, but he bites her shoulder gently. “I will.” 

And then he is pushing forward, thrusting into her, and Sansa’s vision is blurring as she takes him inside of her. She repeats the chant in her head.  _ Jon, Jon, Jon. _ She blinks away the tears in her eyes and sees Jon looking down at her breast. She wonders what he is looking at, but she realizes. Her mark. 

She takes his hand from her hip and curves her own around it, and then presses their hands into her scar. “You are more than this, Jon. And I am more than the scar on your chest.”

Jon nods, and suddenly he is moving, and Sansa is overcome with that same, sharp, intense pleasure, except it is even sharper now, more like the slice of a blade and less like sunshine underneath her skin. But then Jon is pressing kisses to her shoulder, and his hands are soothing her, and it fades so the bite is good. 

Sansa decides she rather liked the way they were before, and rolls them over once more, so Jon is underneath her. The motion brings him deeper into her, and she cries out softly. 

Jon chuckles. “Of course you’d like this.” 

Sansa smirks, and then jerks her hips into his, sending a spark of pleasure through her body. “You know me too well.” 

And then Jon’s hand is rubbing at her clit, and he is thrusting up into her, and it is not long before Sansa is shattering around him once more, and he follows her. 

He stills then, and moves so she’s practically sitting in his lap, foreheads touching. His nose presses against her cheek, and Sansa closes her eyes. 

The voices in her head, everything, it has stilled for this once moment. Right now, in the whole world, there is nothing but her and him, quiet and breathing, the sound of their hearts thumping. 

She savors it, savors this little bit of infinity she’s been granted. “Thank you, Jon,” she breathes. 

His arms go around her waist, and he holds her closer to him. “For you, Sansa, anything.” 

It’s a little bit before they even move, and Sansa winces as Jon pulls out of her. He’s horrified then, she can tell by the look on his face. His eyes clench shut. “I’ll not get a bastard by you, Sansa. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” 

She shushes him them, pressing a finger to his lips. “Do not worry, Jon. The gods, they owe us this little mercy. And anyways, you would be the greatest father. I would be proud to carry your child.” She smiles at that, but her heart, her heart  _ screams _ for something like that, a little boy that has her Jon’s eyes, that has her father’s hair. A girl that has her blue eyes, her mother’s red hair. A family of Starks, in Winterfell once more. 

He nods, and then climbs under the covers. She follows him, and he tucks his head into the curve of her neck. Despite being exhausted, Sansa cannot fall asleep, and so she stares at the ceiling while Jon’s grip on her relaxes and his breathing evens. She runs a hand through his hair and thinks about all the things she wants him to have.

She would love nothing more than to be given the chance to love him for the rest of her life, and have him love her in return. She would love nothing more than to give him the family he has always dreamed of, the family he has always deserved. She can only do that. 

Her whole life has been painful, but Sansa has been blessed to have her brother and sister here, to have Jon here. She will not be selfish and ask the old gods for more. She has already been given far too much, and to lose a piece of it would destroy her. 

She’ll take all the pieces of Jon she can get. It’s better than not having him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr: [parkersedith](https://parkersedith.tumblr.com)


	3. act iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all....we fucking made it here....amazing. i wrote this entire thing in a month and am still constantly obsessing over it and i'm so happy everyone here liked it so much!!!
> 
> guys,,,,i have a minor confession to make. jonsa isn't even my game of thrones otp even though i truly do love them so damn much my otp is braime and if i wrote 60k+ for a ship that wasn't even my otp can you imagine what'll happen if i when i write my braime one? which i am, by the way, and i'm extremely excited to release that for everyone to see as soon as i start it. 
> 
> on the topic of new fics **please comment if you'd like me to write another got soulmate au, and i'll even open it up so you can pick the ship! depending on who it is, i might add it because i'm starting a whole series!** this canon divergent series will only have three parts, but i'm up for more world building/tropes, so please let me know if you'd like to see that!!
> 
> one last thing: this chapter features more sexytimes and gratuitous fluff + angst. ;)

**li. the return of the lord of winterfell**

Jon wakes up to find Ghost licking at his face, and Sansa already brushing her hair. He blinks his eyes open sleepily to find her with her face to him, sitting at the fire. He pushes Ghost away with a grumble, and the dog whimpers and jumps up on the bed to snuggle next to him. 

From the length of the candles, Jon can tell they haven’t been asleep for long, maybe three or four hours. Sansa rose earlier than almost anyone in the castle, and often dressed herself instead of waiting for her attendants. 

He looks at her now, enraptured by her. She hasn’t noticed him and continues brushing her hair, letting her head fall just so. The light of the fire catches it, and not for the first time, Jon thinks that anyone who says Daenerys is the most beautiful woman in the world hasn’t gotten a look at Sansa. 

He likes her like this, quiet and peaceful, content in her own room, happy. Before the stresses of the kingdom were put upon her, before she had to take the entire North on her shoulders. These little moments of peace she found herself wrapped in. 

He gets up and pulls on his trousers, and then steps closer to her, taking the brush out of her hand gently. Sansa startles and looks up at him, but he just smiles at her.

“Good morning,” he says, voice rough, and bends down to press a kiss to her forehead. She closes her eyes and leans into it slightly. 

“You’re up early,” she says, turning back to watch the flames. 

He drags the brush through her hair, hand following it and smoothing out the strands. “So are you,” he murmurs. 

She leans back against him, and he sets the brush down. “I have to be. There’s so much to get done with these refugees.” She smiles at him, stands up. “Thank you, Jon. It will be wonderful to have you home again.” 

He resists the urge to kiss her, because he wants to kiss her but she doesn’t want that, and he doesn’t want to on some level either. He wants to spare her any amount of pain he can. So he just nods, and cracks a small smile at her. “It’s wonderful being back in Winterfell. I’ll see you when we break fast.” 

She nods and watches him slip out the door, Ghost on his heels. Jon creeps back to his room and splashes his face with water, forcing the stunningly alluring image of waking up in a bed (their bed) to find Sansa brushing her hair out of his mind. 

Jon sighs, running his hand through his hair. He wants that, more than almost anything he has ever wanted. He wants Sansa, all of her, her laughter and smiles and sighs. 

He closes his eyes, tries to ignore the violent itching of his scar when he thinks of Sansa, swollen with their child, holding their child, when he thinks of waking up next to her and holding her in his arms. 

Jon swears and dresses in new clothes for the day, pulling the cloak that Sansa had stitched for him around his shoulders. They’re still rationing, and it’s always cold in the north.

He finds Sansa sitting at the high table, carefully looking over some grain storages.    
  
“How are we doing with the new arrivals?” he asks quietly, taking a seat beside her. The hall is much more crowded than usual, and the southern arrivals are easy to pick out, shivering in the cold. Refugees. Jon frowns as he thinks of the reason they are here. There is no food in the reach, and clearly Daenerys isn’t doing anything about it. 

Sansa sighs, sets her pen down. “We have enough food, but I’m sending some bannermen to Wintertown to rebuild some of the housing there. I want to make sure Winterfell and Wintertown have a better relationship. We cannot house all of them here anyways.” 

“Maybe we should ask the dragon queen to spare some of her people to help us out. Although I don’t think stroking her ego is exactly the best way to go,” Bran quips.

Sansa whirls around to look at her brother in shock. Her brows furrow. “Bran?” 

He nods. “The three-eyed raven seems to have decided only to appear within my time of need. It seems have decided to let Bran Stark come back.” 

Sansa laughs and lays a hand over Bran’s. “I think we’re all better off here in the North.” She takes her hand off of Bran’s and nods to Jon. “I wanted to ask if you would lead the men to Wintertown? Davos and I will talk to the refugees and figure out what they need.” Sansa looks at them, and her face settles into that same expression, like it is dissecting what is in front of her. “They need food and a home.”

Jon nods. “Aye.” He clenches his jaw. “Daenerys doesn’t seem to realize they’re suffering.” 

Sansa chews her lip, but just looks at him with a blank look. “No, I don’t think she does.” 

“So what are you going to do if even more come here? We can’t survive with too many people for long. Winter is still here, and we need to ration.” 

“Actually,” Bran says. “Winter should be over in about a year. The rationing should continue for a bit, but I see no reason why we cannot accept these refugees.” 

Sansa breathes a sigh of relief. “Then, I trust Bran. We take in as many as we can. They deserve some place to stay with a warm blanket and a roof over their heads. We take in as many as come.”

“And if that angers Daenerys?” Jon asks. It worries him, the amount of people fleeing North. The North is nowhere near as populated as the rest of Westeros, but it doesn’t matter the amount of population. It matters how many people are loyal to their rulers, and Jon’s willing to bet that more people are loyal to Sansa than Daenerys. 

“Then that angers her.” Sansa stands and leaves the room, her skirts sweeping behind her, and Jon’s left with the sick feeling that this power struggle is not quite done yet. 

**lii. the return of the knights**

‘Welcome back,” Sansa says, hugging Brienne. “I missed you.” 

“And I you, my lady.” They’re in the hall, and it’s rather empty save for a couple of other northmen and Reach refugees who are eating, paying no attention to Sansa and her sworn sword at the front.

Sansa smiles at Jaime. “Welcome back, Ser Jaime,” she says. 

Jaime smirks at her. “I forgot how cold it was up North. I’m surprised all of your men haven’t frozen their cocks off in the cold.” 

Sansa rolls her eyes. “I missed you too, Ser Jaime. So,” she says, turning to Brienne. “How’s Lord Selwyn? Tarth?” 

“He’s good, my lady. I thank you for letting me see my father after the war.” 

Sansa shakes her head. “There’s no need to thank me. Everyone deserves to reunite with their family. I trust that you two are well?” 

She watches the blush explode over Brienne’s face and the smirk on Jaime’s face grow. She tilts her head in the slightest, noticing the small smile Brienne seems to be fighting and the growing smile on Jaime’s face, so different from his usual smirk. 

“What happened?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at them. 

Brienne glances down at her lap, fidgeting with her hands, while Jaime smiles even broader, lacing his hand with hers. Sansa smiles then, understanding dawning upon her. 

“You two got married, didn’t you?” 

Brienne gapes, the blush changing from pink to a bright red, while Jaime roars in laughter. “I told you she’d figure it out without even asking. Good job, little wolf,” he says, winking at her. 

“Jaime!” Brienne hisses. She sighs, seemingly accepting her fate. “Yes. We got married while I was in Tarth. It was a good way to secure the line for both of our families. Casterly Rock needs an heir, and so does Tarth.” 

Sansa leans back in her chair and examines them, a small smile on her face. “I’m very happy for you two. Brienne, Jaime,” she breathes. This will be one of the hardest things Sansa has ever had to do. “I release you from your oath as my sworn shields.” 

Brienne’s eyes widen, and even Jaime stops smiling for a second. “My lady, that is not necessary,” she insists. “I am still capable of serving you as I always have been.”

“That might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Sansa,” Jaime argues, crossing his arms over her chest. “For someone as intelligent as you, I’m shocked you’d make such a foolish decision.” 

Sansa stares at him. “Do not defy me, Ser Jaime. It is not a foolish decision. You two cannot go live happily and have a family if you are here in Winterfell protecting me. I want you both safe.” 

Jaime scoffs, shaking his head. “Sansa, we want the same thing. But the dragon queen is a crazy bitch who you have already defied one too many times. After all, you’ve taken away something she thinks is hers. Tell me, how long did it take for your cousin to reject everything about her and embrace the North again?” He quirks an eyebrow, and it takes all of Sansa’s energy to not react. 

She waits for him to finish, the argument bubbling up on her tongue. “Look, Sansa.” Jaime leans forward, and his eyes are serious, but also kinder than she’s ever seen them. “Daenerys isn’t dumb. She’s not as skilled in political manipulation as you, but she’s not blind. And neither is my brother. You pose a threat to the both of them. A major threat. You’re the most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms. At least until we’re sure that they’ll leave you alone, please, let me and Brienne stay.” 

“I made a vow to you, Lady Sansa. I don’t intend on breaking it. If you send me away, I will simply come back.” 

Sansa folds her hands together, studies both of them impassively. “What makes you think I pose a threat to Queen Daenerys?”

Jaime just raises an eyebrow. Sansa sighs. “Very well, then. But you must leave the second you both think it is calmer. I want you two to live a happy life.” 

Jaime nods, but his face is grim. “I think we may see a couple more battles before that, your grace.” 

**interlude three**

She had to be honest, in all her years of dreaming of the Iron Throne, of being so steadfast and sure in her birthright, she had never thought her life would be this.

Rebuilding, and fixing everything. 

King’s Landing remains largely intact, the Kingslayer now becoming the Queenslayer, slitting the throat of his sister while in her throne room. Her Hand had told her that his brother had learned of their sister’s deception, concerning both their unborn child and her attempt to burn the city to the ground, wildfire caches hidden beneath the entire city. 

Daenerys might have hated the false queen, but she must admit, she admired how firmly Cersei held on to her power. But only dragons survive fire, and Cersei would have burnt with her throne had the Kingslayer not arrived in time. 

But besides King’s Landing, there is still so much to do. There is no food within the Reach, and many lords and people have sent her notices clamoring for her help. Daenerys leaves all of that to Tyrion.

Ruling, she has discovered, is  _ boring. _ She would much rather be riding on Drogon, looking at all the clouds. 

But all her dragons perished in the War against the Dead and in King’s Landing. She had felt their deaths, each of them, like a vicious knife, cutting through her body. It had seared her from the inside out, and for a second, she knew what it was life to burn alive. 

(dragons are only fireproof on the outside)

So Daenerys concerns herself with her own activities, roaming the gardens of the Red Keep, making sure all her subjects are loyal. She keeps a close ear for any hint of rebellion, from any sort of rejection from the people. 

“Your grace.” Tyrion’s voice breaks her out of her reverie. She glances over at him. Currently, they were at Winterfell, seeing if they can borrow so much needed supplies for the Reach. 

Daenerys had balked at the idea of begging someone else for help, but Tyrion has eventually managed to convince her. 

_ “Your grace,” he had said. “They rioted against my nephew because he starved them in times of war. The last time you want to do is to seem similar to him, unable to feed your own subjects and help them in their time of need.”  _

And so Daenerys had acquiesced, traveled to the North on a horse along with a large group. Tyrion sits along her, the only member of her old group to stay with her in King’s Landing. 

Varys, burnt. 

Davos, in Winterfell.

Missandei, in Naath.

and Jon Snow, her bastard nephew, in the North, with  _ her. _

Her lip curls, ignoring Tyrion’s attempts to once more grab her attention. She had thought, as a Targaryen, that Jon Snow would come to her side, and again to her bed, eventually. That he would realize that only their family was fit to rule the realm, that they were the true heirs to the throne. There are a few things she knows about Jon Snow, however, and it is that he would do anything for his family. 

Since attempting to claim his birthright would lead to the death of everyone Daenerys knows he holds dear, she is confident he will not do this. But that does not mean she wants him so far away, with his cousin-sister, who does not see him for the dragon he is. 

She wants him in her bed again, to be the father of her children, to show her that he is much less wolf than he believes. She thinks that he is the only one who can beget a child from her. And as queen, she needs an heir. 

“You grace!” Tyrion’s words are slightly sharper this time, and she fully turns her attention to him. 

“Yes?” 

Tyrion lowers his voice. “Listen to me, your grace. As your Hand, I like to think myself well acquainted with the affairs of the kingdom.” He sighs, pouring himself a glass of wine, and downing the entire thing quickly. “Your grace, there has been talk of Northern Independence.” 

‘What!” Daenerys sits straight up in her seat, focused completely on Tyrion. “She  _ dares _ to contest my rule?” 

Tyrion shakes his head. “No, your grace. But Lady Stark has run the North more competently than the Wardens of the rest of the realms put together. There reports of people fleeing North.” 

Her teeth clench, but she tries not to show it. “Why? Why would they choose live in this desolate place rather than the warmth of the south?” 

The Hand of the Queen sighs. “Because this place has food, and water, and a warm bed for all those who ask. Lady Stark runs it like a tight ship, monitoring grain storages and rebuilding glass gardens. She has even taken the time to rebuild her mother’s old sept for all the southron people fleeing here. The truth, my queen, is that many people here feel Sansa Stark is a much better ruler than you, and that staying part of the Seven Kingdoms, only because Jon Snow bent the knee, is harming them more than it is helping them.” 

Daenerys’s eyes flash with anger. “She cannot be allowed to continue like this. We must control her.” 

Tyrion opens his mouth to respond, but at that moment, the door opens, and the Lady of Winterfell and the former King in the North enter. 

Sansa’s head dips forward. “Hello, your grace.” Rare is it that Sansa calls her this. Only when absolutely necessary. The idea irks Daenerys more than she would like to admit, but the fact that Sansa does it at all sends triumph thrumming through her veins. 

Daenerys smiles, lips thin. “Lady Stark.” 

“How may I help you, your grace?” Sansa Stark sits like Daenerys expects a typical fragile lady to, back straight, posture perfect. Her face, as always, is perfectly impassive. 

Daenerys has spent months trying to chip away at that impassive surface, and she doesn’t expect to find much underneath. But curiosity still gets the better of her, and she would feel better if she knew what sort of insipid thoughts were whirling around in Sansa’s brain. 

“We have come here to request your help with feeding the Reach, my lady,” Tyrion buts in. Daenerys’s eyes flicker from her Hand to Lady Stark, and an idea comes to her. “You have considerable food and water here, more than any of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms save Dorne. And since you have a much closer relationship with the Queen, we thought you would be so kind as to lend a hand and donate some of your food.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “Why would you think that? I am not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” Her eyes flicker to Daenerys for a split second. “My only concern is for my subjects, the people of the North. If southerners want to come up here, then I will care for them all the same. But I fail to see how the welfare of the Reach concerns me. I must put my own people above all else. Even my own desires.” 

Daenerys’s anger flares, and she wants nothing more than to open her mouth and burn Sansa Stark to a crisp. And she would have, but her Hand interjects before she can say anything. “I remember when we were married, my lady,” he says quietly, fixing Sansa Stark with a soft glance. “And the thing I remember most about that miserable existence is your kind heart. For Margaery, for the small people, Ser Dontos. Please. I know you care.” 

Sansa fixes him with a harsh look, his speech having done nothing. The bastard next to her looks at her. “Sansa,” he says, voice soft and quiet in a way it never was with Daenerys. “You’ve been looking at the grain storages every day for the last moon. You know better than anyone else if we can spare a few barrels of grain.” 

Sansa turns to look at him, and Daenerys wonders what she must to do make this girl  _ break. _ Even when looking at her own cousin-brother, her expression does not change. Sansa turns back to Daenerys, folds her hands together. She sits in silence for a minute, cool gaze fixed upon Daenerys. 

This unsettles her, although she hates to admit it. Daenerys knows how to handle fire and anger, burning in someone’s eyes. But Sansa Stark’s gaze is cool and blue, cold like ice. She despises how much this bothers her. 

“Very well,” she finally says, breaking the silence. “We can spare twenty barrels of grain. No more, no less.” She looks at Tyrion. “I should ask for something in return for this. And so I will. I want you to return Theon Greyjoy to Winterfell.” 

“You are not in a position to be making demands, Lady Stark,” Daenerys snaps. This insolent  _ bitch.  _ The nerve! How dare she ask for something from her queen, from her ruler.

But what Daenerys does not admit is that Sansa Stark is at least a little smarter than she gave her credit for. She doesn’t ask for a physical thing. She asks for a Greyjoy. What bothers Daenerys is the Greyjoy she asks for, Theon. The one who is loyal to her, who would die for her. 

Daenerys tries to push the thought out of her mind. “We can grant that, my lady,” Tyrion says. Daenerys’s head whips around, and she wants to scold him. But to do that would be to show discord and strife in the Queen’s court in front of Sansa Stark, and that is not acceptable. This girl already thinks she holds power over Daenerys. She will not further that expectation. 

Sansa nods. “Thank you. I will send Ser Davos with the details later on.” She turns to Daenerys. “May I be excused, your grace?” 

She wants to say no, wants to make Sansa wait for her to leave, but frankly, she can’t think of anything she wants more than to be far away from Sansa Stark. She nods. “Yes, Lady Stark.” 

Sansa stands up and with a sweep of her skirts, exits the room, followed closely by the bastard. As soon as she leaves, Daenerys lets out an angry sound, hands clutching the table in front of her. She whirls around to Tyrion, angry, ready to spew fire. 

“Why would you say such things?” she spits. “You have made it seem like we are begging Lady Stark for the smallest provisions, willing to grant her anything she asks for in return. You made it sound like she is the most powerful person in the room!” Her face contorts in anger as an idea comes to her. “You will marry her again. You will marry her and she will become a wife to one of the most powerful people in the Seven Kingdoms, and then I can control her.” 

Tyrion looks at her incredulously, then bursts out laughing. “I want you to know something, your grace. I am going to be honest with you, honest in a way I have never been before. There is something you must know.” He leans forward, looks colder than she has ever seen in her entire life. “No one has been honest with you because of your dragons. I would never have said this before for fear of being burnt alive. But you must hear this.” 

He stands up, paces the floor of the solar. “Daenerys.” She flinches at the use of her name so casually, but he carries on. “You are not a ruler.” She opens her mouth to protest, but she cannot get a word in. “You were born into fire and blood, and you were born to conquer. Sansa Stark was born to rule.”

“How  _ dare  _ you say such lies,” Daenerys says, voice dripping with venom. “I should execute you here on the spot.” 

Tyrion laughs bitterly. “With what, your grace? You armies are tired, having fought your wars over and over again. Your closest advisor and general are in Naath, living a fulfilling life, and no matter their loyalty to you, they do not want to leave. You are unable to control the Dothraki, who plunder and pillage the very people you rule. Rape your women, sell your children into slavery for their own good.” 

Daenerys shakes her head. “They would never disobey me. I am their Khaleesi. I am their queen.” 

“No man who must say he is the king is truly the king. You are not the Queen, your grace. You do not even know how your subjects are doing, the names of each of the Wardens of the Realms. Ruling bores you, and you would rather be burning down everything in your path than watching over it. Lady Stark is different.” 

“I am her ruler. She will never be allowed to leave. You will marry her, and keep her in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“Your grace, I would rather die than marry Sansa Stark again. To do so would be a grave insult to her.”

“I don’t care!” she yells. 

“Sansa Stark is far more powerful than you, Daenerys. I know it is not what you desire to hear, but for once in my fucking life, I am going to tell you the truth. You simply cannot control her, not in the way you wish.” Tyrion pours himself a goblet of wine, downing half of it in one gulp. “She holds the love and loyalty of the people of the North. She is a Stark, and they do not take that lightly. She has a claim to the Vale, to the Riverlands, stronger than either of their Wardens. She holds three of your kingdoms, a massive army, in the palm of her hands. If she wants to leave, we grant it to her. To insult her would be to covet war again.” 

Daenerys scoffs. “Let them try. I have beaten them before. I will beat them again.” 

Tyrion shakes his head sadly. “Will you never get over your pride? Your dragons are dead, your armies obliterated, your people starving. You cannot even manage to keep the loyalty of your last living blood relative in the entire world. War is a bloody, gruesome mess. There is a difference between riding a top a dragon and fighting for your life on the battlefield. War is hell, and no one wishes to return. But they would for her. They wouldn’t for you.” 

“And why is that?” 

“They love her. And they fear you. My sister ruled with fear, and look where that got her, your grace. You must learn how to get their love, like Sansa Stark has done. She has the love of the North, of the Vale, the Riverlands and beyond. She has the love of the Greyjoys, half of your remaining pitiful army. You must rule with love and respect, my queen. Or what happened to your father will happen to you.” 

“It will not. I am the Breaker of Chains. They loved me, in Meereen and Astapor. They will fight for me if I ask them.” 

He laughs, bitterly. “You are the Breaker of Chains as long as it suits you. You made a foolish move, Daenerys, and it is precisely why you are unfit to rule. You broke the chains, but only because you wanted the debt of the people. You wanted their loyalty and their love, and you only cared about them as long as it suited you.” He sets his glass of wine on the table. “Understand something, your grace, When you broke the chains, you took the armies that could protect those slaves away. You stole the dragons that kept the nobles in line away. Meereen and Astapor are slave cities once more. And now that your dragons are dead, you will never again be the Breaker of Chains those people deserve. Fear, Daenerys, is no way to rule at all.”

Daenerys stays up, her hands clenched into fists. “I am a dragon. Lady Stark is a wolf. And all creatures bow to the dragon. She will bow to me.” 

“Do you know why there are no more dragons, your grace?” Tyrion looks at her sadly. “Why Lady Stark is the most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms, whether you like it or not?”

“Dragons are always alone. And wolves have the strength of their pack.” 

**liii. the sept of winterfell**

When the sept is rebuilt, Jon finds himself drawn to it. 

Not in the same way he was drawn to the godswood, a deep pull inside of himself from a place that he would never know, but drawn to it nonetheless. 

When he steps in, it is silent, although the altars of the Seven have flickering candles laid everywhere. Jon relishes this. The godswood swallows all of the noise of the world, and this sept, it does the same as well. He takes a step forward and sees a candle laid at the feet of the Mother. In fact, many of the candles are laid at the feet of the Mother, people looking to her for protection and warmth. 

Jon thinks of all the mothers. He thinks of Lyanna first, and such as he had done for years, he curses the fact that he never got to meet her. From what Father had told him, Lyanna was more wolf than woman, and there are times when Jon looks into Ghost’s eyes and feels more wolf than man. He wonders what else he got from his mother, and what exactly he got from his father. 

He goes to Catelyn next, cold and cool. Jon wants to go back in time and slap the foolish little boy he was then. He closes his eyes. Catelyn is a wound he is not sure will ever heal. Now that Jon has seen Ramsay, has seen Joffrey, he knows that Catelyn was a little justified in her fear. But Catelyn was also the closest thing to a mother he had ever known, and when she sat with him when he got the pox, nursed him back to health, Jon’s dreams of his mother that night had always been filled with red hair, no matter how improbable that was. He thinks he resented Catelyn because she was not his mother, and she resented him for that very reason as well. 

He thinks of Elia next. Elia Martell, slaughtered for no reason at all, and he says a prayer of forgiveness. He failed Elia as well, and now the family that condemned her to death sits on the throne once more. She deserved better, and even as Jon moves from Mother to Maiden, he cannot help but think that that was the curse of the universe, giving good people nothing that they deserved. 

Jon steps to the Maiden, and he’s surprised to see that there are so many candles at her feet, flickering in the wind. 

That’s until he realizes the candles are for Sansa and not for the Maiden directly. He prays to the Maiden, even if Sansa is no longer one, because who else can he pray to? The Mother doesn’t seem right to him. 

_ Keep her safe, please,  _ he prays, kneeling in front of the statue. These are not his gods, but the old gods never seemed to hear his prayers, and he figures asking these couldn’t hurt.  _ Please. Sansa is the last hope of the North, and if we lose her, we will not survive the aftermath. Keep her safe. Please. _

He stands then and glances to the Warrior. Jon has never prayed to the Warrior, but he finds himself studying the statue anyways. Sworn to protect the innocent. He snorts. Knights often do the exact opposite of that, as he too well knows. 

Jon turns to leave the sept, but he stops for a split second. It is like he can feel the ghost of Catelyn here, in the same place where her husband built this sept for her, for no other reason than to make her feel at home. Jon understands his father now, understands why Ned had done such a thing for a woman he had barely known. 

Even Ned Stark had fallen prey to love, and love would always be the death of duty. But every time Jon reminded himself, he found himself haunted by Aemon Targaryen’s words, the words that kept him awake night after night. 

_ We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. _

At the time, Jon had dismissed this as the ramblings of a man. How could something be a glory and a tragedy at the same time? But he understands now. Because he is only a man, and the old gods and the new have seen it fit to fashion him to love Sansa, for the rest of his life, against all reason, against the world. She is his great glory, and Jon is his own great tragedy. 

**liv. the queen of the north**

The most shocking thing about Theon arriving is that he brings Yara with him. Sansa does not anticipate the arrival of the Princess of the Iron Islands, but she greets Sansa the same way she always has, with a sharp little smile. Theon, on the other hand, hugs her tightly and grins at Bran. He goes with Jon to help with Wintertown, and Sansa finds herself one morning alone with Yara. 

The princess looks over at her, all sharp edges and salt water. Sansa thinks of Myrcella Baratheon and herself, thinks of Cersei and fluttery little dresses, perfumed limbs and reddened lips. Yara Greyjoy is nothing like those princesses, a storm unto herself, but Sansa likes this more. 

Storms must weather themselves, and Yara Greyjoy is a woman who knows what she wants. 

She sits across from Sansa and raises her brow. “Got any good wine around here?” 

Sansa nods and motions for a serving girl to bring them a pitcher of wine and two goblets, and Yara waits until the wine has been poured and she has downed a glass before speaking. 

“You’re not going to drink?” she asks, nodding at Sansa’s goblet, which has no more than a sip taken out of it. 

Sansa pushes the wine away from her. The dark liquid sloshes in the cup and threatens to slip over the side, and it is a dark, dark red. Sansa thinks it looks like blood. “Never had much of a taste for it, to be honest. I prefer to keep my mind sharp. I saw what happened to my first husband when he relied on the drink too much.” 

Yara laughs then. “The Imp, right? Bastard,” she mutters. “Lannisters, the lot of them. Thank god the queen bitch is dead.” 

“Why are you here, Yara?” 

She shrugs. “I wanted to see if the rumors about you were true.” 

“What rumors?” Sansa bites out, keeping the annoyance on her tongue sharp.

“The rumors that you’re putting together an army to take over the dragon queen,” Yara says casually, leaning back in her chair.

“What!” Sansa exclaims. Those were the types of rumors that could get her family killed, that could get all of the North killed. 

Yara cackles. “Relax, ice queen. I’m joking around. Well, not much. There aren't any rumors about you building an army, although there will be soon, I’m sure of that. The rumors that you’re planning on leaving Daenerys high and dry and pull out of Westeros to become an independent kingdom.”

“Oh.” She sits back in her chair. 

Yara chuckles. “I guess that’s all the answer I’m getting.” She swirls the wine in her cup around before setting it on the table. “You’re aware we owe everything to Daenerys, right, Sansa? Without her, none of us would be alive. We would be at the mercy of, of those  _ things _ and would have died long ago. Daenerys is the  _ reason _ we are alive.” 

Sansa says nothing, but pulls the wine glass closer to her and takes a sip. Her eyes stay locked with Yara’s watery blue ones, so like Theon’s, yet so different, and they follow the princess. 

“You have no right to fight for independence, Sansa,” Yara pushes. “Daenerys will want you to be loyal. She  _ expects _ your loyalty.” 

Sansa nods, finger tapping against the side of the wine glass. “Tell me something, Yara. I am the eldest living trueborn child of Ned Stark, true?” 

Yara clenches her jaw and nods. “The Lord Protector of the Vale is my younger cousin, who I cared after and who loves me. The Lord of the Riverlands is my uncle, who adored my mother. How many of the kingdoms is that?” 

“Three,” Yara gritted out. 

Sansa leans forward. “Understand something, Yara. Daenerys is not the reason we are alive. She is the reason we are not dead. She brought no food when she came north, and her dragons could have decimated our storages. There’s a difference between protecting your people from certain death, and keeping them alive. I suggest Daenerys learns it.”

“The North has done nothing to earn its independence, Sansa. Nothing that no other kingdoms have suffered through. It is not special in any way.”

“I don’t care about that, Yara. And it is not about the other kingdoms. It is about the North, the cause that my mother and my brother died for, the reason Joffrey beat me. The North will be independent. If I have to die with my throat slit for it to be so, so be it. The North will be independent if it is the last thing I do. Besides,” she continues, sitting back in her seat. “The Iron Islands have always been independent as well. I remember your father’s attempt to become independent from King Robert’s rule, which eventually resulted in the death of your brothers and the capture of the only living one. Why are you suddenly so eager to bend the knee to this queen?” 

“Because she will be a good queen, Sansa. She will be a good queen because she is the only queen who can protect us all. The country has suffered from weak rulers for far too long. Joffrey cruel, Robert terrible, Tommen weak and spineless. And Cersei was a crazy bitch. She was horrid. Daenerys will be a good queen. You just need to give her a chance to prove it.” 

“I respect you, Yara, and so I will be honest with you, which is something I rarely am with people. I will never trust Daenerys. I have never trusted her, and there is nothing she can do that will make me trust her. I do not have just myself to think about. I have the rest of the North. The people, the commonfolk, have all suffered underneath the Iron Throne. The only person who can lead them is a Northerner, and the only Northerner they know is one named Stark.” Her voice drops to a deadly low whisper. “I don’t care what Daenerys will be. All I know is that now, the North is an independent kingdom in everything but name, and one day, it will be in name as well.” 

Yara’s look turns slightly murderous, but Sansa doesn’t flinch. “And you don’t care what the queen thinks of this?” 

Sansa shrugs. “Let her come for me. We will see which one of us is the queen they go to war for.”

Yara sneers. “Be careful, Lady Stark. Just because my brother is loyal to you does not mean the rest of the Iron Islands are as well. You do not have them on your side.” 

Sansa smiles, much like how a viper smiles just before striking its prey. “You’re right about that, I’m afraid. Theon, while one of the noblest men I have ever met, is sadly not the leader of the Ironborn. You are. The only thing is, I wonder if you’ve told your men of this new Queen. What she expects of you. The kind of loyalty she wants from you. She’s only been on the throne for what, a year and a half?”

Yara’s eyes flash in anger. “I suggest you leave the affairs of my men to me, Lady Stark.” 

Sansa nods. “Of course, Yara. I was only suggesting that perhaps you think about whether or not the Iron Islands truly should be a part of the Seven Kingdoms. Because right now, the people of the Reach are fleeing North. The Vale, North, and Riverlands are all strong and healthy, and that is because of the Starks, not because of Daenerys. And Dorne wants nothing to do with this new queen. I suggest Daenerys start focusing on what is happening in her own kingdom before the entire thing breaks apart in front of her very eyes.” 

“Do you really think you can lead the North successfully without Daenerys?” 

Sansa laughs lightly. “The North has been ruled by a king in everything but name for 300 years. I will not bend. Especially to a leader who thinks that it is wiser to fight than to talk.” 

“Sansa,” Yara says, suddenly quiet. “I understand why you want to be independent. I understand only trusting yourself. But Daenerys would not be a bad queen. Nobody would have made it this far without her.”

“I’m sorry, Yara,” Sansa says, a note of finality in her voice. “I wouldn’t haven’t made it this far without myself. I’m not backing down.” 

Yara frowns. “Still. You shouldn’t do this. Fight for your right to be independent. Pay the iron price, or no price at all.” 

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Must you be so dramatic? I will not force my men to pay any iron price, Yara. They are tired, and deserve to rest. There have been too many wars fought in the years past. We will leave quietly, and when my men are rested and willing to fight, then I will ask Daenerys if she challenges my right to do so.” 

“She will, you know,” Yara adds. “She’s fought too long for the Iron Throne to see it slip away from her.” 

Sansa stands up. “Then I hope she knows what’s happening in her kingdom, because the Iron Throne is breaking apart underneath her. Good day, princess,” she says, giving Yara a nod and sweeping out of the room. 

**lv. the last of the grejoys**

Theon Greyjoy is different from how Jon remembers him. He’s quiet, and withdrawn, not the cocksure boy who slept with every whore in Wintertown before Robb and Jon had even thought of girls in that way. 

He’s not the chatterbox that he used to be, pensive and often lost in his own thoughts. He nods at what Jon tells him to do and works with the men easily. Many of them respect him now, not like they did when he was a boy, but in the way battle-hardened men respect each other after they have been on the battlefield. 

It certainly helps that Theon would be among the first of them to give his life for Sansa, to give his life for the North. And now that he cannot give the Greyjoy line more sons, Jon knows he only cares about Sansa, that he wants to protect her with all of his heart. 

He doesn’t ever say the words, doesn’t ever truly admit them to Theon, and even though the man may deserve more, Jon still cannot fully forgive him for what he did, even if Sansa finds it in her heart to be able to. He still cannot forgive Theon for everything, not when he played a hand, however unwillingly, in the death of Robb. 

(robb will always be the open wound in his heart, the part of him that will never heal. the dead starks will always be the festering wounds in his soul)

But Theon Greyjoy, even if he hasn’t received Jon’s forgiveness, has earned his respect. After all that he has done, he has earned that much, at the very least. 

Jon looks at Theon one day, when the last of the towns are being built in Wintertown, when the last of the Reach refugees are getting their homes. Their eyes meet, and Jon knows that Theon Greyjoy no longer says much because he doesn’t need to. His eyes show everything he wants to say, will ever say. And Theon Greyjoy understands what exactly is at stake here. He understands just how much Sansa needs to be protected, just what the two of them are willing to do for her. 

**lvi. the daughter of howland reed**

When Meera finally returns, it is among the greatest snowstorm, and the last snowstorm, of winter. 

The wind whistles throughout Winterfell, and Sansa sits in her solar with Arya, Bran, and Jon, warm next to the flickering fire. She is perfectly happy, and content. Her family is all safe, and all of her people are sheltered and warm. 

So it’s a small shock when the door of her solar swings open, banging against the stone wall. Jon and Arya jump up immediately, Arya with her dagger drawn, Jon already moving in front of her. 

But Sansa is more preoccupied with the woman who has just entered her solar. 

Meera Reed, the same woman who brought her little brother back, who vanished almost as soon as she arrived, is standing there, covered in snow. 

She throws the hood of her cloak back and shakes the snow out from her hair, cocks a smile at Sansa. “Hello there, ice queen.” 

The corner of Sansa’s mouth turns up slightly. “Hello, Meera.” 

She smirks at Sansa. “Heard you were leaving the Seven Kingdoms. Thought a Queen would need a Queensguard.” 

“Meera.” It’s the first thing Bran has said, and it’s said with shock. This, more than anything, chills Sansa, assures her that this is her brother speaking, not the three eyed raven. Why would one be surprised if they know everything about what would happen?

The smile on Meera’s face slips off, and she regards Bran with one of the coldest looks Sansa has ever seen. “Hello, Bran.” 

Sansa watches them carefully, watches the awkward way Bran fidgets and the cold way Meera carefully looks away from him. Perhaps having Meera around again will be good for all of them, especially her brother. 

“I believe you’re right, Meera. Please meet us tomorrow morning in the hall to break fast and discuss this.” 

“Who are you?” Jon asks, brows furrowing, and Sansa realizes that he wasn’t here when Meera helped to return Bran. 

“Meera Reed.” Bran answers, voice rough. “She and her brother Jojen were Howland Reed’s children. He saved Father’s life at the Tower so he could come find you and bring you home from Aunt Lyanna. Meera helped me live when Rickon, Osha, Hodor and I escaped Winterfell. She was the one who brought me to the three-eyed raven, and the one who brought me back home. She saved my life.” 

“And then I left. To deal with the threats to the North. I was fighting one of the few remaining White Walkers when it shattered before my eyes. And I knew that the Night King died and that you had a hand in it, Bran. So I made my way back to Winterfell to find out what was going on.” 

“What took you so long to come back?” Arya asks, finally sheathing her dagger. 

“I wanted to head down to the Neck and see some of the crannogmen before I returned to Winterfell. I missed the swampland.”

“You came back, though,” Bran says. “You came back.” 

She shoots a sharp look at him. “For Sansa, I came back.” Sansa notices the thinly disguised hurt that flickers over Bran’s face, but she keeps her own eyes trained on Meera’s. “The crannogmen have sent me here with a message; should you ever need assistance from them in making the North independent, they will be happy to lend some of their bannermen to your cause. House Reed has and always will be loyal to the Starks.”

Sansa nods. “I thank you for this, Meera. The Reeds have always been among the truest friends of the North, of House Stark. It is late now. Jon, can you please show Meera to her room? I think I will retire for tonight.” 

“Of course,” Jon mutters, nodding to Meera. She glances once at Bran before she follows him out the door, and the door swings shut behind them as the two of them leave the room. 

Arya turns to Bran, eyebrow raised. 

“Anything you wanted to say about that?” 

Bran has the decency to look a little ashamed, and he looks at the fire. “The three-eyed raven grew stronger, the more I learned from him, the more I saw into the past and the future, the more I became like him. Cold, and emotionless. I wasn’t the nicest to Meera when she left.” 

Arya barks out a laugh. “ _ Nice? _ Bran, that thing inside of you wasn’t at all mystical and mysterious. To be honest, I just found you  _ boring. _ We didn’t care about the three-eyed raven if we had you.” 

Sansa glances over at Arya, who’s smirking at Bran. “My best guess is that Meera still hasn’t gotten over the way you treated her after everything the both of you had been through.” 

Bran picks at the wood on his chair, suddenly looking so young. He  _ is  _ young, Sansa realizes. All of them are so young, barely children thrust into this life of war, forced to grow up too fast. “I was cold, Sansa. That’s the only way to describe it. I hadn’t realized just how much control the three-eyed raven had over me until he began to leave.” 

“Would you do it again?” Arya asks. “Lose yourself like that?” 

“We all lost ourselves,” Bran says quietly, staring into the flames. The shadows flicker over his face, and it is opposing forces that Sansa finds so interesting. Her brother looks so young, but his eyes look so old, and Sansa wonders if there is any amount of laughter and joy that will ever leech the haunted look out of any of their eyes.”I guess the only difference is how long we let ourselves be lost.” 

He looks at Sansa, wretched pain written all over his face. “I should have never left Rickon. Because he wasn’t with me, because he wasn’t protected, Ramsay got a hold of him. He  _ killed _ him.” Bran turns away from his sisters and closes his eyes, and Sansa can see the shiny track of tears run down his face. 

“I should have never left you,” Arya says to her, voice breaking, and Sansa watches as her sister struggles to hold back tears. I should have never left you and Bran and Rickon and Robb and Mother. I should have never left Sansa behind in King’s Landing.” 

Sansa shakes her head. “I will never regret that, Arya. You  _ lived,  _ and you might not have if you stayed there. It was so hard for me to survive on my own. I would have died if you had been harmed as well.” 

Sansa reaches across and grips her sister’s hand as Arya quietly begins to sob, finally breaking. “Why did they kill Father? Why did they kill Mother? And Robb and Rickon? Rickon was a  _ boy. _ Barely five when I left. I never got to see him again. I never got to see Mother and Robb again. Why do so many evil men live while good people like them die? Why, Sansa, why?” Her sister cries even harder, and Sansa can do nothing but slide from her chair and kneel on the stone floor of her solar, wrapping her arms around Arya. 

Arya doesn’t cry, Sansa realizes. But there has been a hundred lifetimes of pain and tragedy stored in her veins, and it was to come breaking sooner or later. Sansa has cried. She has sobbed and wept and shattered plates, she has cursed the gods and torn her clothes and ripped out her hair. Sansa has broken many times already. But Arya, Arya’s strength is brittle. One tap, and she will break into pieces. 

Sansa says nothing, only holds out a hand for Bran to grasp as Arya’s sobs trickle off in her shoulder, her brother leaning slightly forward and clutching her hand as though it is a lifeline.

Arya soon quiets, and she wipes her tears away. “I hated how you were dressed, when I first saw you again,” she confesses quietly, leaning back against the wheel of Bran’s chair. “You looked so much like  _ her. _ ” 

Sansa nods. “I hated how Jon looked when he was dressed in his cloaks,” she admits. “He looked too much like Father.” 

“I don’t think we will ever stop missing them,” Bran says. “I know I won’t.” 

“Robb should have gotten a king’s burial. Mother a lady’s. Instead they were tossed into the river at the Twins,” Arya spits. “I should have made the Freys suffer more.” 

“I will never pretend to be ok with you killing people, Arya. But because of what I fear it could do to you, not because the people you kill don’t deserve it.” Sansa pauses for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “But I will never tell you that what you did at the Twins was wrong. I wish I had been there do it with you.” 

“And I,” Bran says. They sit in silence then, the surviving children of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, lost in memories and moments. 

“I wish I had come back earlier,” Arya says, after a bit. “To help you take back Winterfell.” 

Sansa smiles. “I’m glad none of you ever had to meet Ramsay. He was a horrible man, who did horrible things to me. I was happy when he died. And anyways, I had Jon. He fought for Winterfell, even if he hadn’t been back in years. He fought for WInterfell, and he fought Ramsay. And we took the North back.” 

Bran looks at them and nods. “And that is it, isn’t it? You both are the protectors of Winterfell. He, the warrior, you, the lady. Just like Father and Mother.” 

Sansa feels red arise in her cheeks. “We are nothing like Father and Mother.” 

Arya smiles for the first time in a while. “You’re  _ exactly _ like Father and Mother. Annoyingly so, in fact. The only problem is the both of you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” 

Sansa shakes her head. “How many times must I tell you this, Arya?  _ There is nothing going on between me and Jon. _ ” 

Her sister just stares at her before smirking. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

Bran stares at her. “You can’t seriously expect us to believe any of that, right, Sansa. I still see everything.” 

Sansa flushes when she understands the meaning behind her brother’s words. “Shut up, Bran,” she hisses. “Both of you, out of my room, now,” she snaps, getting up and gathering her skirts. “It’s late, I’ve got to go deal with a lot of things in the morning, and I don’t want the rest of you bothering me.” 

Arya just grins at Bran before wheeling him out of the room, cackling when Sansa slams the door behind her siblings and thumps her head against it. This was going to be  _ fun. _

**lvii. the maester’s wife**

Jon finds Gilly the next day, early, before any of them have the chance to break fast. He has come looking for Sam, and she is rocking Little Jon while Little Sam plays at her feet. 

“Jon!” she says, exhausted but still smiling at him. Jon laughs when Little Sam climbs to him, begging to be lifted and swung around.

He settles the boy on his hip and gently pushes little hands away from grabbing his hair before he flashes a smile at Gilly. “Gilly. Any way you might know where I can find Sam?” 

She purses her lips. “I think that he mentioned something about going to see some of the Reach refugees about their meals. Gods, Jon. Some of them are so hungry I can count their bones without trying.” 

Jon frowns. “I know. It’s terrible. Bran says we’re not to have more than a few months of winter left, and I’ll be glad for that. We’ll be able to stop rationing soon and then take in the harvest.” 

“How’s Sansa?” she asks. “I never get to see her any more. Little Sam misses her.” 

The boy nods vigorously. “Lady Sansa always smells good! And she has the best lemon cakes and smiles!” 

“Aye, she does,” Jon agrees, laughing gently. “Sansa’s busier than ever, Gilly. With Daenerys and all of these Reach refugees, she barely has time to even eat. She’s not sleeping well either. To tell you the truth, I’m worried about her.” 

Gilly’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Is this about Ramsay, Jon?” 

He sighs, shifting and setting Little Sam down so the boy isn’t as close to him when he speaks. “She gets lost in her own head, sometimes, Gilly. She has nightmares that don’t make any sense, dreams about Ramsay killing her father and mother. She gets so quiet some days, and I am not sure how to help her. I regret ever letting that bastard come close enough to lay a hand on her.” 

Gilly sits in silence for a minute, and rubs a hand through Little Sam’s hair has he runs over to her. “You cannot help her, Jon.” 

He flinches at the harsh words, but she only gives him a sad smile before pressing on. “Sansa suffered as no woman should suffer. Trust me. I understand what she feels. Sometimes the nightmares come and they don’t make any sense because the horrors she went through are too much to be true. She loses herself in her own mind because it was probably the only safe place when she was trapped by Ramsay.” 

“But how do I just stand by and not help, Gilly?” his voice breaks. “She suffered so much when I was at the Wall.” 

Gilly shakes her head sadly. “You have to learn how to, Jon. The only person who can truly help Sansa is herself. You have to learn that. She is strong enough to survive. She made it this far. The hardest part is after.” 

Jon sighs, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Tears threaten to escape his eyes. “Sansa doesn’t deserve any of this.” 

Gilly nods. “The gods are cruel, Jon. There is no other way to describe them.” She presses a kiss to Little Jon’s forehead. “We must learn to live in a cruel world. And the most powerful weapon in a cruel world is kindness.”

**lviii. the queensguard**

When Sansa walks into the hall to break fast the next morning, she is surprised to find Arya, Brienne, and Jaime all already at the table. Sansa was often the earliest to wake, and so when she broke fast, rarely were there many people to eat with her. 

“Good morning,” she says, taking a seat. 

Brienne nods at her. “My lady.” 

“I heard the Greyjoy boy is back,” Jaime comments casually, sipping his drink. “Heard his Sea Monster sister brought him to you after you forced the dragon queen’s hand.” 

“Jaime,” Brienne scolds. Jaime just rolls his eyes. 

“Honestly, you’re worse than the dragon queen. How do you make everyone in Winterfell like you? Fuck,  _ I _ like you. And I don’t like most people.” 

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Don’t ask me, Jaime. I didn’t ask for you to like me.” 

Next to her, Arya snorts, then hands her a piece of buttered bread. Sansa looks at her sister in shock. “We should be rationing, Arya.” 

Her sister rolls her eyes. “Winter is ending in a few months. We can afford to be a little indulgent.” 

“The food should go to the people, then,” Sansa insists. 

“Oh, shut up,” Arya smirks. “Don’t you ever get tired of being so noble?  _ Take it.” _

Jaime points at Arya with his knife. “You. I like you.” 

Arya glances at Sansa. “I see what you mean about the Lannister latching onto anyone who remotely tolerates him.” This elicits a gasp from Jaime, and he and Arya devolve into shallow jabs at each other, which pulls a laugh out of both Brienne and Sansa occasionally. They sit there in silence, enjoying the meal, until Sansa has finished and she realizes Jon has not appeared yet. He’s unusually late. 

“Why are all of you here?” 

“The little matter of your Queensguard, Lady Stark,” Arya answers. “Honestly, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” 

Sansa glares at her sister, pinching her. “I am not a Queen yet,” she points out, even if the words sting. “Daenerys will consider this an act of war, if you form a Queensguard for the  _ Wardenness _ of the North.” 

Arya shrugs. “Let her. You are our Queen, Sansa, and the sooner she realizes that, the sooner the North will become independent.” 

“Plus, that only gives us more reason to form a Queensguard,” Jaime points out. “Daenerys isn’t foolish. She understands how powerful you are, even if she can’t do shit about it. At any time, she could send threats to you, attempt to kill you. I’d never thought I’d say this, but she’s no longer underestimating you, Sansa.” 

Sansa thinks of Tyrion.  _ Many underestimated you. Most of them are dead now.  _ Perhaps Jaime made a good point. She turns to Arya. “Where is Jon?”

“Gone to get Meera,” she answers. “But he should be back now.” 

Just then, the doors of the hall open, and Meera and Jon stride in.”Sorry for the lateness, Sansa,” Meera says. “Someone took forever collecting me.” 

Sansa frowns. The lines around Jon’s eyes look tighter than usual, his smile just a little tight. She’ll press him about it later. 

“Please, sit.” 

Meera’s chair scrapes against the floor as she pulls it back and drops into it, just as Jon takes a seat on the other side of Sansa. “Since all of you here see it fit for me to have a Queensguard, I assumed you’ve worked everything out?” 

Brienne glances at Jaime. “Your grace, I’d like to be the captain. With your permission, of course.”

Sansa groans. “Brienne, you have other responsibilities now. You have a husband, lands you  _ both _ must take care of. Correct me if I’m wrong, Jaime, but you currently  _ are _ the Warden of the Westerlands and the Lord of Casterly Rock, are you not?” 

Jaime frowns, the lines etched around his face deep. “Sansa, both Brienne and I agree. Our first responsibility is to you.” 

“Brienne, you don’t need to be captain,” Arya interjects. “I will be at Winterfell year round. I can be the captain of her Queensguard.” 

“Year round?” Sansa asks, turning to face her sister. She raises an eyebrow in a silent question. _What about Gendry?_ _Storm’s End?_

Her sister shakes her head. “He doesn’t want me there anyways,” she whispers, so quiet only Sansa can hear. 

“You grace, I must beg of you to let me do this. I am your sworn sword. It is my duty to protect you.” 

Jaime shrugs. “You’re not going to change her mind, Sansa.” 

Arya crosses her arms. “Well, if the dragon queen ends up coming after my sister, I want to be there to protect her as well. She’s crazy.” 

Sansa taps her fingers on the table. “This is what we will do. You both may remain here, equal captains as my Queensguard, until Daenerys grants the North its full independence. And then, I want only one of you here, half of the year, and then the other wherever they must go. I want you two to live your own lives.” 

“Sansa—” she holds up a hand, cutting Arya off. 

“Brienne, you will return either to Tarth or Casterly Rock. Arya, you  _ will _ go to Storm’s End.” Her sister flushes at this, but Sansa continues. “This is how it will be.” 

Arya looks like she wants to argue, but wisely keeps her mouth shut. Brienne just nods. “As you wish, your grace.” 

Sansa looks to Jaime. “And what will you do?” she asks. 

He smiles. “I think I’d like to stay with my wife, if you’ll have me.”

“You still have an entire region to take care of.” 

Jaime nods. “That I do. But Brienne does as well. The both of us can delegate well anyways. I’d like to stay with my family.” 

She understands this, his hesitation to leave her behind. The both of them have left each other behind so many times, Sansa wonders how they ever found their way back to one another. She wonders if she and Jon will ever find their way together. 

“Meera?” 

She smirks. “I thought I’d hang around, your grace. I certainly don’t want to go trudging through the snow anymore. The crannongmen can survive without me for a while. They’ve survived for thousands of years on their own.” 

Sansa sighs. “None of you seem content to leave me alone, do you?” 

Arya shakes her head. “Not now, Sansa. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, not while Daenerys is still after you. And not while I can do something about it.” 

Jon speaks up, for the first time since they have sat down. “Let us help you, Sansa. That’s all we want to do.” 

She looks at him, and his eyes speak of a million more meanings hiding behind those words. But she smiles. “Thank you.”

**lix. the black sickness**

The plague comes quick, silent, and in the night. Within two days, half of Winterfell has fallen prey to the plague, and the maesters are overwhelmed. It seems to strike randomly, sparing Arya but not Jaime, felling Meera but not Brienne. 

Sansa sends the children and elderly away the morning the sickness hits. She is always looking forward, and because of her quick thinking, Jon is sure that Winterfell’s losses will be spared much. 

But not by much. Many still die, so many more than Jon can count, as he realizes when he visits Sam in the courtyard. “How many?” he asks, looking at the bodies covered in sheets. 

“Twenty in two days,” Sam responds, not even pausing in crushing some herbs together. Jon takes the bowl from him and continues, nodding at Sam to put together another poultice. “Sansa made the right decision, sealing Winterfell off. Unfortunately, that means the sickness must devastate the castle before it dies out.”

Jon hands Sam the finished poultice before he stands up, taking some cold strips of cloth. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Sam frowns. “Take care of yourself. Half of the Queensguard is already suffering. Jaime is getting better, but I haven’t seen any improvement in Meera. Just, try not to get too sick taking care of everyone else. We’re already overwhelmed, and I’m tired of always having to take care of you,” he jokes, cracking a smile at Jon. 

Jon laughs. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at it I wouldn’t keep asking you to.” 

He leaves Sam then, tending to some of the Queensguard, and goes to find Meera. He pushes open the door of one of the bedchambers of Winterfell to find her on the bed, Bran sitting next to her, holding her hand. “Bran, what are you doing here? You could get sick,” he scolds. Meera coughs, her forehead covered in sweat, as Jon drapes a cool cloth on her forehead. She sighs in her sleep, pale even for her, paler than Jon has ever seen her. 

“Trying to make up for lost time, I suppose,” Bran answers, gaze trained on Meera. “For leaving her behind. She protected me, for so long. And I didn’t even thank her for what she did.”

Jon sighs, crouching in front of Bran. “Meera doesn’t think you owe her anything, Bran. She’s just sad and upset. She missed the boy you had been, the boy before the raven.” He smiles at his little brother. “I know I did.” 

Bran looks at him. “She saved my life, Jon.” 

“Aye,” he nods. “She did. And that makes her one of the bravest women I have ever known. She protected those she loved.” The guilt is apparent on his face, he is sure.

“Why do you feel so guilty about Sansa, Jon?” Bran asks. “There was nothing you could have done.” 

“Father, Bran. Because of Father. You were too little to understand, not yet a man, back then. You’re a man grown now. Every time I failed Sansa, I failed Father. And I couldn’t fail Father, not after leaving him, not after his death. Making your father happy was all I ever wanted in life. It was all I ever needed. And then my life became about making Sansa happy, and I failed in that as well.” 

Bran smiles then, sadly. “You never failed her, Jon.” 

“I did, Bran. I didn’t save her from Baelish, I didn’t save her from the Lannisters, from Cersei, Tyrion. I couldn’t even save her from Ramsay without the help of the Knights of the Vale.”

“Sansa has never needed someone to save her, Jon. But she has always needed you.” Bran looks back at Meera, and tightens his hand around hers. “Don’t drive her away because you think you aren’t good enough. You don’t get to make that decision for her.”

Jon leaves them, and Bran’s words echo in his mind as he finds Sansa in the hall, discussing with some of the maesters. She looks much older than her six and twenty years, for once, and Jon feels his entire body ache from just looking at her. 

Sansa dismisses them all with a tired smile, and she looks at the high table as though she wants nothing more than to collapse into one of the chairs there. Jon rushes forward and touches her arm slightly. “Sansa, sit down.” 

“I can’t, Jon,” she protests, even as he’s leading her to the high table and into a chair. “I don’t have the time. People are still sick.” 

“And it won’t do them any good if their queen happens to fall sick as well. They’re getting better, too. The sickness seems to be dying out,” he points out. 

Sansa rolls her eyes, but even she cannot stifle the small sigh of pleasure that escapes when she finally sits. “Only for a minute,” she concedes. 

Jon stands behind her and gently places his hands on her shoulders, digging his thumbs into her back. “Gods, why are you always so tense?” 

“You try managing Arya the whole day and see if she doesn’t give you gray hairs and sore muscles as well,” she snaps back, head rolling to the side as he presses harder into her shoulder blades. 

“Now you know how Catelyn felt,” he chuckles. 

Sansa smiles at the mention of her mother. “Now you know how Father felt. You were always able to manage Arya better than me. Better than almost anyone, except him.” 

Jon stops working at her shoulders to kneel beside her, resting a hand lightly on her arm. “They love you, Sansa. They do.” 

She grips his hand. “You as well, Jon. There’s no way some part of Mother didn’t love you. She didn’t take care of you for sixteen years without some part of her that cared.”

“She didn’t, Sansa. And I understood why. She  _ couldn’t. _ I was a constant reminder that her husband hadn’t been faithful to her.” He closes his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder how Father could have chosen Lyanna over her.” 

“Jon, he  _ didn’t. _ If Robert found out Lyanna had a son that wasn’t his, that was  _ Rhaegar’s, _ he would have had you killed. Father chose to protect you. And he couldn’t tell Mother because she would have been killed if anyone found out.” 

“All my life, all I wanted was to be a Stark. That’s all I have ever wanted.” 

“You are to me.” 

He turns away from her kind words, words that he has wanted all his life. “I’m not a Stark, Sansa. Not like she wanted me to be.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Sansa spits. “You are a Stark in every way that matters. And if it matters to you so much that your name is Jon Snow, and not Jon Stark, I’ll marry you, and make it true for the whole realm. I’ll marry you and give you what you have always wanted. I’ll make you a Stark, and shout it from the rooftops myself.” She takes his face in her hands. “You deserve that, at the very least. You deserve the world, Jon, and I cannot give you that quite yet, but I will try to give you this one thing.” 

He’s shaking his head before she finishes the words. “No, Sansa, don’t be foolish.” She winces as the words fly from his mouth, coated in venom. “How could you be so  _ stupid?  _ All your life, you have been trapped into marriage. I will not be another man who traps you against your will.” 

“It wouldn’t be against my will, Jon,” she insists, rising to her feet to match him. They stand, squared off, in the middle of the hall in Winterfell. The wind whistles through the open window. “I want to do this, for you. After all you have done for me.” 

“You’re not indebted to me, Sansa!” he snaps, turning to face her. How can she not understand? How can she not see that she would never be indebted to him, that he would always be indebted to her? He owes everything,  _ everything, _ to her. “I will not trap you in a loveless marriage, to a man who doesn’t deserve you. I will not trap you with in another marriage with someone you don’t love!” 

“How can you think I don’t love you?” she yells back, hands clenched into fists. 

“Not like a sister loves a brother, Sansa.” He groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Someone you love like one should love a husband.” 

“Then pull your head out of your own arse, Jon Snow,” she says, stepping forward, “because I have loved you like a wife loves her husband since I was nineteen years old, and I will not have you stand here telling me how  _ I _ feel about  _ you! _ ” she explodes. 

Jon freezes then, all the blood in his body turning to crystal. He doesn’t seem to be able to even flinch, move even a fraction. He wonders if he had heard wrong, because the world didn’t bless Jon Snow with sweet things, like the words that had just fallen from Sansa’s lips. The world gave him sharp edges and swords and death and kings and blood, but it did not give him the greatest happiness in the world. 

“What—what did you say?” he manages to croak out. 

As Sansa begins to realize her words, a horrified expression overtakes her face. She steps back from him. “Jon.” 

“Say it again,” he whispers, so soft he wouldn’t have thought she heard it if not for her closing her eyes in pain, as if someone had just plunged a sword into her heart.

“Jon,” she starts again.

“Say it.” 

She opens her eyes, and they’re brimming with tears. She looks terrified, horrified, and Jon feels the sinking of his own heart even as it thumps so fast and so loud it sounds like the horde of a thousand Dothraki. “I love you.” 

Everything in Jon breaks, shatters right then and there, and he’s walking to her and pressing her to him, not even trying to stem the flow of tears down his face. “Do you mean it?” he asks, hoping against all hope she does. 

Because this is all he has ever wanted, everything he has been wishing for. This is everything in the world to him, all that he has dreamed of. A bastard isn’t allowed to dream, especially not a bastard like Jon, and they’re certainly not allowed of dream of things as sweet and as good as Sansa. They’re not allowed to dream, but that had never stopped Jon from sweet thoughts of red hair and a beautiful smile, thoughts it was only too easy to lose himself in. That had never stopped Jon from wanting, even as he told himself he wasn’t allowed to want anymore. Because these words, falling from Sansa’s lips, are sweeter than he had ever dreamed them being. 

“With every beat of my heart.” 

He lets out a laugh then, incredulous, and pulls away from her so he won’t do something foolish, like kiss her. “Sansa, sweet Sansa, how could you not  _ know? _ ”

Her face calms then, smoothing into something less horrified and more cautious. “Know what, Jon?” 

“That I’ve loved you longer than I’ve known the stars and sun exist.” He laughs, and fists his hands in his hair. “Gods, Sansa, sometimes it feels like I’ve loved you before I knew what love was, I loved you before I even knew I loved you.”

She asks him now. “Do you mean it?” 

“I have never meant anything more in my life.” Sansa presses a hand to her mouth, then takes a single step forward. And then suddenly they’re rushing towards each other, and she flings herself at him, and he catches her, and the gods be damned, every single one of them because he will never,  _ never, _ let her go now. 

**lx. the agony of a first kiss**

She never wants to leave, surrounded by Jon, Jon,  _ Jon. _ She is loathe for the moment when she must take her arms from around him, from when she must let go and step back, from when this perfect moment is shattered. 

Jon buries his face into her hair, and Sansa can’t even contain her glee, and she  _ giggles, _ honest to god giggles, when his nose brushes her neck. Eventually, though, he sets her down and steps back, pressing his forehead into her hair. 

“You love me,” she says, not as a question, but as a declaration.

She can feel the rumble of Jon’s laugh. “Aye. And you love me.” 

“For my whole life,” she says back, and the moment is too sweet she knows it will be stolen away, but she still hopes it stays. “I love you, Jon, so much that I can hardly bear it. I loved you before the dragon queen, I loved you in between, and I will love you after.” 

“Gods, Sansa. You want to marry me?” 

She laughs, pure, bright happiness. “I do.  _ So much. _ I want to marry you because I love you and because I want you as my husband, by my side. I want to marry you because I cannot even think of marrying anyone else, because I cannot even think of loving anyone else for as long as I live. I will not love anyone even after I die.” 

“You don’t want to just marry to make me a Stark?” 

His voice is so quiet, and her heart breaks right there, for this boy who has been through so much, far more than any boy should. For this man, who the world has twisted, who the world has stolen innocent smiles from. Her heart breaks because she will spend the rest of her life telling Jon Snow she will only want him, and his love, but it will take far too long before she truly convinces him of it. 

“I want to marry you because you already are a Stark. My father said he would find me someone brave, and strong, and gentle. A good man. Jon, you are the bravest man, the strongest, and the most gentle man I have ever known. You have more goodness in your little finger than most men in their whole bodies. God, Jon, I love you so much I don’t know how to contain it all. But I will also make you a Stark. You deserve the Stark name, after everything you have done for me.” 

“I have done nothing but love you, Sansa.” She shakes her head. “It is true. You have saved the world, Sansa, time and time again. You have saved me, over and over again. You have saved us all. And I have only loved you more through all of it. If you’ll have me, I’d love to be able to love you for the rest of our lives.” 

She smiles then, biting her lip to keep tears from pouring down her face. “I want you and our family for the rest of our lives. I want you and Winterfell with Arya and Bran. I want to live here with you, in the North.” She takes one of his hands and presses it to her stomach as she presses her forehead to his. “I want to give you plenty of children, enough children to bring laughter to Winterfell. They’ll call you Father, and me Mother, and they’ll be Starks. You will be their father, and they will call them all the children of the Starks. You’ll be Jon Stark, and you will be my husband, and I will be your wife. And we will live this life together.” 

Jon’s silent for a moment then, and suddenly he moves, cupping her face, and before Sansa can even begin to understand what he is doing, he presses his lips to her, and her entire world ends. 

Because there is agony, oh god, there is so much  _ pain, _ like the crack of thunder, and Sansa is sure her body will give out from it. There is pain and it swarms her body, and she cannot even think, but if she could, she would mourn all the pain Jon feels. 

This is the whip like agony, the kind that slices through Sansa like a hot knife, the kind that nearly drives her insane. The kind that makes her curse the gods for putting a man like Jon through so much pain. 

Sansa has never known a word for pain beyond it, and she wonders why such a short word held so much in it. Because this was beyond just physical pain. This, this was grief and heartbreak and  _ death, _ this was being hurt in a place you can never recover from. This was betrayal and guilt and a thousand other pains, all in one.

She thinks this is what it must feel like to be struck by lightning.

But the pain is only there for a split second, because Jon pulls away, gasping in pain, before his eyes lock on Sansa, and he rushes to clutch her hands. “Sansa, Sansa, please forgive me. I am  _ so  _ sorry.” 

Sansa smiles sadly. “It’s alright, Jon. I was only worried about the first time, and all of the pain that I would have put you through. Gods, Jon, I am so sorry for all the pain you went through.” She presses her fingers to her lips. “We took each other’s pain away,” she realizes. 

“What?” 

“We were scared about the other being in pain. But now that we have felt each other’s pain, we will never have to feel that kind of pain again. You will never have to suffer my pain again.” 

“I want to suffer your pain, Sansa, so you don’t have to.” 

Sansa shakes her head. “That just brings more pain into the world, Jon. I am just grateful we both felt the pain and loved each other through it anyways.” 

He looks at her, and he pulls her closer. “I would have suffered all of the pain in the world for the chance to kiss you.”

“And I you,” she confesses, looping her arms around his neck. She kisses him, soft, and light, like a butterfly’s wings, gossamer and sweet. This is what a kiss should feel like, pleasure and sweetness. And yet, Sansa knows it would not be them if they did not have some pain in their lives. 

She and Jon have suffered too much to just throw it away, but they’ve made it a part of themselves. She carries it with her, but she carries him in her heart, and so she bears the burden a little easier.

When Jon kisses her again, the winds of Winterfell are howling, and there is a little pain, because there will always be a little pain with them, but she feels nothing but pleasure and happiness. Sansa has been waiting for this for  _ years, _ and she will be damned if she lets anyone take this away from her. 

**interlude four**

Daenerys closes her eyes in exhaustion. There is  _ so _ much to take care of, and she does not want to do this, any more. She is so tired of this, of this ruling. Not only is it boring, but Daenerys has come to a realization of her own. 

She was not made for marble halls or thrones, crowns on her head. Daenerys was not made for meetings and planning, she was not made for strategy or grain reserves, she was not made for a Queensguard and foreign ministers. 

Daenerys was made for fire and blood, to feel the wind whipping through her hair, to scream and shout and yell, to do a thousand things queens are not allowed to do. She was made to fight and to lift others up, to be on the ground, to argue and tear things down with her bare hands. Daenerys was made of fire and blood, to liberate. 

She comes to this realization, but there is no easy way for her to leave. And normally, she would have just left, but if she did that, she would be seen as all these other rulers, and Daenerys wants that least of all. 

So when Tyrion tells her the Reach has still not recovered from the scorched earth completely, that King’s Landing is now suffering, Daenerys grips the arms of the Iron Throne a little tighter. She knows what his answer will be. 

“Sansa Stark, again, right?” 

Tyrion nods. “Yes, your grace. I thought it might be right to meet her at Harrenhal. It’s more neutral than the North or King’s Landing.”

“Why?” 

Tyrion looks confused. “What do you mean, your grace?” 

“Why do you take her side, every time?” Daenerys is oh so tired of people choosing Sansa Stark over her. She is tired of the queen in the north, of all of these people bowing to her. Daenerys is fire, and she has not yet stopped burning. But she is beginning to understand why there are no more Targaryens, and why everyone says the Starks endure. 

The throne requires someone of ice on it. Fire burns out, eventually, and Daenerys will not let her flame be choked out. “Why must I keep asking her for food. Why must we go in the first place to Harrenhal? Can I not take care of my subjects? Am I not a good queen?” 

Tyrion hesitates for just a second before he answers, and this is how Daenerys knows he will lie to her. “You are a good queen, your grace. But your Dothraki continue to pillage, to lay waste to the lands of Westeros. People in the Reach are suffering. The new Warden has not done enough. The people on King’s Landing are suffering. I have been through the streets, my queen. The people…..they talk of rebellion.” 

Daenerys clenches her jaw and looks away. “When will they learn to submit?” 

“Your grace, this is not about loyalty. This about a ruler who can provide for them. Please. Remember, you don’t want to be remembered like my nephew, who starved his own people for his crown.” Daenerys bites her tongue. She does not want to be remembered like Joffrey. People still whisper tales of his cruelty. And Daenerys will not be another Aerys. She will be better. 

She gives a jerky nod. “Fine. We will see Sansa Stark in Harrenhal.”

Tyrion gives her a stilted nod, before walking away. Daenerys slumps back in her throne, counting the days until she can leave. She wants to go back, to return to the house with the red door and lemon tree outside. 

It takes them two weeks to reach Harrenhal, and they arrive at the same time as Sansa’s bannermen. She wastes no time in welcoming them into the castle, and Sansa Stark sweeps in, as cool as ever, as beautiful as ever. 

Her cousin still trails behind her, ever so handsome, but her sharp little sister is there as well, cold grey eyes trained on Daenerys. 

Daenerys tries to shake off the feeling as though this girl sees all of her weaknesses (what is it about the stark sisters that unnerves everyone? what kind of power do they hold?) and nods her head. “Lady Stark.” 

The title probably irks Sansa, because Daenerys knows how everyone sees the girl as the queen in the north, not the lady of Winterfell, but she will not grant her that little bit of pride. Not quite yet. “Your grace.” 

Sansa takes a seat opposite her, the bastard on her right, and Arya on her left. Daenerys is awestruck by how different this scene is from years ago. The ice queen is as cool as ever, but Jon, Jon is a thousand times warmer. 

They have only been separated for four years, but Daenerys realizes that being around fire had only caused Jon’s heart to harden. Ironic, she thinks, how fire hadn’t melted him, but ice had. 

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys says. She will speak for herself this time. “I will keep this brief. We need your help. Not only with returning the Reach refugees, but also with subduing the Dothraki and returning them back across the Narrow Sea. And whatever extra supplies you can provide for the people of King’s Landing.” 

Sansa levels a cool look at her. “That’s quite a lot you are asking for. I’d have to give up many things.” 

Daenerys nods. “Yes, you would. That’s part of being a ruler, isn’t it?” She sits back in her chair. For the first time since seeing Sansa Stark again, Daenerys is acutely aware she is unmatched in this game of thrones. Sansa was born to play it. But that does not mean Daenerys has not picked up a few things along the way. “I am asking you, as your queen, to do your duty to the realm. Help your fellow people. Protect them from the Dothraki.” 

Sansa tilts her head, calculated. “Aren’t you their Khaleesi? Why aren’t they listening to you? There can’t be that many left after the Long Night, anyways.” 

Daenerys bites back a wince. Sansa Stark has, as always, managed to strike at the chink in her armor, precisely. “It seems that many are...displeased with me after the loss of so many of their kin at Winterfell. They do not listen to me anymore. And anyways, the Dothraki only understand one language, and that is the language of blood and violence.” 

Sansa taps her finger against the wood of the table, watching Daenerys. Her cool blue eyes flicker from Tyrion back to the queen, and Daenerys watches her right back. “You may have my support in expunging the Dothraki from Westeros. And you may have all the extra grain I have. I will also help return the Reach refugees to their home, if,  _ and only if, _ they wish to return. But I want something in return.” 

Daenerys smiles, like a snake. She knows what Sansa will ask. “And what will that be?” 

“The North. I want it to be mine. I want it to be independent.” She stares at Daenerys, eyes hardening from cool lakes into sheets of ice, and Daenerys knows that Sansa will not back down this time, not without a fight, not without teeth and blood.

(both wolves and dragons shed blood with teeth)

“Fine,” Daenerys says, and out of the corner of her eye, she can see Tyrion stiffen. Jon’s mouth drops open in slight shock, and even the younger Stark girl seems taken aback. But Sansa does nothing but smile. 

“Thank you, your grace.” 

“The North will be an independent kingdom again,” Daenerys proclaims, rising to meet Sansa. The Stark girl is tall, but Daenerys refuses to look up at her. “As it has been for a thousand years, and as it will be for a thousand years after. Send Davos Seaworth to my Hand. They will work out the details.” 

Sansa gives her a nod. “Good luck, your grace.” 

Daenerys folds her hands and looks back at her. “You as well, Queen Sansa. I hope this will be the last time we see each other.” 

This brutal honesty draws the first genuine emotion out of Sansa Stark that Daenerys has seen in a long time, and her expression opens, just a little. “I hope that as well, your grace.” 

Daenerys leaves the room then, Tyrion trailing after her, and she ignores him, because for once in her life, she is sure she has made the right decision. 

Daenerys was made to fight and for war, but she is sure this battle is one that is not worth her time. 

**lxi. the way back home**

Sansa cries out underneath him, twisting. Her nails scratch down his back, leaving angry red marks in their wake, and Jon bites her neck sharply in retaliation. 

“Come for me, Sansa. Come on. You can do it.” 

Sansa finishes with a curse on her lips, and her name spills from Jon’s lips as he spills inside her, hips jerking into hers. 

They are on their way back from Harrenhal, staying at an inn for one night. Jaime had shot a wink at him when Jon had come to her door, happily leaving and being replaced by Ghost. 

Jon presses a kiss to Sansa’s shoulder as he rolls off of her, and she curls into his side. “That was better than most times,” she breathes. 

He turns his head to her and quirks an eyebrow. “It wasn’t up to your royal standards before?” 

Sansa laughs. “Not, not that. Just that you seem to be getting better with each time. I’m impressed.” She trails a finger down his sweat soaked chest and kisses him on the cheek lightly. “I like it.” 

Jon smirks. “I can tell.” He knocks on the wall beside the bed. “You’re lucky that these walls are made of stone. Your royal screams seem to be getting louder. Wouldn’t want to wake the whole realm up and alert them to our activities.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy them. Plus,” she adds, “everyone’s already talking about us anyways.” 

Jon stops smiling and stares at her. “What?” 

“You mean you truly don’t know?” She shifts so she is laying on her stomach, red hair falling like a curtain and pooling on his chest. “The songs they sing? Of the Winter Wolf and the Ice Queen?” 

Jon feels himself redden. “Sansa,” he mutters, but she continues. 

“They say that the both of them are more wolf and human, that they can tame only each other. That she is kissed by fire, and has no mercy. That his eyes glow red in the light, like a wolf, and that he stalks the walls of Winterfell wearing the pelt of a white direwolf. They say the wolves howl when they mate, and that there are no men left alive who have seen them transform. They speak of their love, how it was so great and powerful it moved winter itself. And how Winter only returned to the North when the both of them were reunited.”

“Sansa, you let them say this about us? You let them disgrace you with tales such as these? Tales that leave you open to have a bastard?” 

She shrugs. “Telling people not to come up with songs is hardly going to discourage them from doing so. And besides, it’s not like they’re doing any harm. They sang these songs when they thought you were my  _ brother, _ Jon. It was simply too good a fantasy to give up, a wolf returning home to rescue the only member of his pack he thought left alive. Now that they know you’re my cousin, they’ve only sung them louder.” She smiles softly at him. “I do not mind. Not especially. I have minded even less since some of the songs came true.” 

He tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear, thumb stroking the curve of her cheek. “I have found myself minding quite a few less things since we began. What else do the songs say?”

Sansa flushes. “Truly, in the songs we have been married ever since we took Winterfell back from the flayed men, in secret, of course. The songs say that once the wolves take back the North again, the queen and her husband will fill it with more wolves again, as her mother once did.” 

Jon chokes on air at this, and when he manages to regain control of himself, Sansa is picking at something on the furs beside him, unable to meet his eyes. So instead of giving her the reactions he expects, he decides to be a little unpredictable, for the first time in his life. 

“Would you want that soon? To be married? To have children?” 

Sansa blinks in shock, and her mouth curves into a soft smile. “I want to marry you and bear your children more than anything else in the world, Jon. Of course I want that. But the world is an unstable place right now. I’m not sure I’m not sure I’m ready to  _ marry _ another man quite yet.” She runs a hand through his shock of black hair. “I love you, Jon, more than I knew it was possible to love someone, but I’m not ready to get married, just yet. We should wait until it quiets down. Of course, if you’re ok with that as well.” 

Jon laughs and pulls her closer, curving his nose into her neck. “We have time, Sansa. We can wait for as long as you want. For the first time in our lives, we have time.” 

She smiles at him, and then snuffs out the candle on their nightstand, leaving them in complete darkness. “Nobody can tell us what to do anymore, Jon. For the first time, you and I are in charge of our lives.” 

“And our own destinies.” He wonders what it is like to hold your fate, your future in the palm of your hand. But even as his grip on Sansa’s waist tightens as she falls asleep, Jon finds that he rather likes the feeling of being in control. He’s not had it nearly as much as he should have.

**lxii. the shattering of the seven kingdoms**

They receive news of it, about a year later. 

Sansa cannot say she is surprised, but then again, there is not much about the dragon queen that shocks her. Daenerys is not predictable, but she is routine. 

Davos tells her of it quietly as they break fast. 

“Daenerys has given up control of the Seven Kingdoms, your grace.” 

Jon stares at him in shock. “What?” he whispers. 

“The other kingdoms followed in Sansa’s lead. Especially Dorne. They wanted independence. The Dothraki did a lot of damage in the four years they were here. According to what I’ve heard in the capital, Tyrion Lannister himself told her to give up control of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

_ This _ shocks Sansa. “Tyrion, give up his power as Hand of the Queen? That’s not like him at all,” she murmurs. 

Davos shrugs. “Daenerys didn’t even seem to want the throne anymore. She took it with her and dropped it somewhere into the Narrow Sea when she left. All of the Wardens are now Kings. She appointed her Master of Coin as Warden of the Crownlands and left. Tyrion said she said something about a red door and lemon tree.” 

“What could that possibly mean?” Jon asks. 

“Home,” Sansa answers. “Daenerys is going back home.” 

She thinks of the dragon queen visiting all those years ago, when Sansa was barely all of twenty and full of bitterness. That hasn’t changed. Sansa is no longer full of bitterness, but her twenty year old self wasn’t wrong in not trusting anyone. But her seven and twenty self knows that to have a small group of people you  _ do _ trust is invaluable. And not to be blinded by childhood affection. Sansa has learned from her parents’ mistakes. She has grown, and she has taken from the both of them the message on how to be a queen. 

Something occurs to her, and she turns to Jaime, smirking. “You realize this makes you a king now, right?” 

Jaime whips his head from where he had been looking at Davos, staring at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Sansa smirks. “As the oldest living child of Twyin Lannister, you’re the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the Westerlands. Davos just said all of the Wardens are now Kings. Congratulations, Brienne. You’re now a Queen.” 

Brienne and Jaime look at each other in shock. “Yeah,there’s no way I’m in  _ any _ way prepared to lead a kingdom,” Jaime says. “Can’t I just give it to one of the other power hungry Lannisters around? Or someone else?” 

Sansa smiles. “The Westerlands will always be yours, Jaime. I suggest that you use your brother, who actually has quite a fine mind, to learn about how to rule a kingdom, and use his help.” 

Jaime was not born to rule, Sansa knows this. But this will perhaps make him the best ruler she has ever known. The only one who can rule well is the one who does not desire power, and Jaime and Brienne desire power less than all of the other people she has met in her life. 

Jaime lets his head fall forward and thump against the wood of the table. “This is ridiculous,” he says, voice muffled. “It’s just like the dragon queen to go fuck off somewhere and leave us to pick up all of her scraps. I’m getting really tired of cleaning up her shit.” 

“She didn’t want it anymore, Jaime,” Sansa says softly. She looks at her council and Queensguard: Sam, Jaime, Davos, Arya, Bran, Meera, Brienne, Jon, and Theon. She thinks about the support and love she has, the wonderful feeling she gets sitting with people in this room who want nothing more than the best for the North, who are behind her. Who stand with her. Sansa knows that if she asked any of them to, they would go to the ends of the Earth for her, but she would do the same for any of them. 

Daenerys does not have that. Daenerys has no one but herself and the ashes of dragons to keep her company, to make her feel loved. 

It is a cruel thing, the absence of the feeling of love. It turns someone from warm to cold. She wonders if that is what happened to Cersei, but that is not true. Cersei felt love, and she had been loved, by Jaime. That is even crueler, Sansa thinks. To have love, and to feel love, and to throw it away in the pursuit of power after all. Sansa can not fault Daenerys for leaving. It is what any true ruler would have done. It is no longer about power. 

That is what Cersei had never learned, what Baelish had never learned. She wonders if Tyrion would ever learn it. In the end, the game is not about power. Because when you get the power, you lose everything else. Sansa knows she would not trade what she has not in front of her for the world. She would certainly never trade it for more power. 

Power corrupts, and in the end, power only makes one hollow and empty. In the end, the game is not about power. It is not about carefully calculated moves and chaos, it is not about who wins and who is the cleverest or the strongest. In the end, the game is death, and the only winners, if you can even call them that, are the ones who survive. The game is death, and it is about bloodshed and tears and grief. The game is death, and Sansa has had so much of it in her life she has no interest in playing it ever again. 

She looks over at Arya, offering her sister a sad smile. Arya meets her eyes and her eyes twitches almost imperceptibly. “It wasn’t everything she had dreamed about, for years, so she cut her losses and moved on.” 

“This is the same girl who said she’d take back the throne with fire and blood when we first met her, right?” Meera asks. “Didn’t you all say she was obsessed with the throne?” 

Jon shrugged. “Daenerys always seemed happier on the back of a dragon than anywhere else. I can’t imagine sitting in meetings all day was something she learned to love. I think she realized that she wouldn’t have been a good ruler. She’s been one for almost 8 years. The realm is still not back to the way it was.”

“So what, she left her people behind?” Theon says. 

“Yes. She couldn’t take care of them any more.”

“And what?” Jon asks. “Who will take care of them now?” 

Sansa tilts her head towards Jaime. “I’m sure Tyrion knows how to. And I know Daenerys’s Master of Coin. He’s a lord from some smaller house. He can. And we will watch him.” 

Sansa’s back straightens. “We will watch them all. This realm has had too much of the same, lord hurting the smallfolk. We will watch them and make sure they don’t. The North is the strongest Kingdom in Westeros. And the Westerlands are the wealthiest. We will make sure they stay good.” 

“Do you really think that is possible, Sansa?” Jaime asks. “For lords to be good?” 

She looks at him. “Somehow, after all you have done, you sit here with me, as part of my Queensguard, one of my newest and closest allies. You have proven yourself, Jaime. You have  _ earned _ everything you have right now. If someone like you can be good, then I cannot find it in myself to say all these other lords can not be. Plus,” she says, smile sharp, “we always have Arya to encourage them to stay in line.” 

Jaime snorts. “I’ll drink to that. Your sister’s fucking terrifying.” Arya smiles at him, quick and cat-like, and Sansa takes a sip of her wine as she listens to the sound of laughter and light teasing. 

This is what Daenerys was missing, and Sansa mourns it for her, because she had likely known it her whole life. Daenerys surrounded herself with sycophants, but they were still people who loved her. Daenerys does not deserve her pity, Sansa understands. Pity is for the smallfolk and young children, not for a being like Daenerys. For all her talk of dragons and fire, separated by thousands of miles and many years, driven apart in a time of war and different desires, Sansa begins to truly see that Daenerys was a force of nature, a being unto herself. Sansa can respect this. She was not fit to be a queen, but she had been one anyways. 

It is hard, for a queen, to lose all the support she has ever had. It is even harder for a young woman. Sansa raises her glass in a silent toast, makes it to the Mother of Dragons. 

_ May you find what you were always searching for. _

**lxiii. the prince from dorne**

Jon wonders how this became his life, watching an endless line of marriage proposals to the woman he loves. 

This most recent one is from the Prince of Dorne, and he goes as far as to invite himself North to discuss trade matters with the Queen. Jon rolls his eyes. It’s a fair excuse, sure, but a thin one nonetheless. 

“Jealous much?” Arya says, glancing over at him. 

He looks back at her, gaze tearing away from Sansa’s soft smile at the Prince. “Not trying to be. I trust her. It’s him I don’t trust.” 

Arya shrugs. “I think he’s supposed to be handsome? Don’t ask me. If you do, I’d say he looks more like an overgrown lizard.” Jon chokes back a laugh, and Arya grins over at him. “Just trying to be honest with my queen,” she quips. 

Jon shakes his head. “Don’t let Sansa catch you speaking about our guests like that,” he warns. 

Arya snorts. “Please. She’s the one who put the thought in my head.”

Jon looks over at her. “She doesn’t want him here? Even for trade purposes? I know she wants to keep Dorne as a close ally.” 

“Sansa wants to keep all of the Kingdoms as allies. In her case, I think it can actually be done, but that’s the only reason she’s entertaining the possibility of him here. He wants to marry her, though. Sansa doesn’t appreciate when people aren’t upfront about their intentions. If he had told her he wanted to court her to strengthen their Kingdoms through a bond of marriage, she’d have received him ten times better.” 

He looks over at Sansa, who has just laughed at something the Prince said. “She’s not receiving him well now?” 

“Well, she’s not  _ dumb. _ Being mean to him certainly isn’t in the North’s best interest. And so what if she leads him on a little? Men are stupid.” Jon looks over at her in shock, and she simply rolls her eyes. “You know I’m right, Jon. She has zero interest in pursuing an actual relationship with him, even if it wasn’t for the fact that she has someone else warming her bed.” Arya smirks at him. “When we say Sansa knows how to play the game, she knows how to play  _ all _ of the game.” 

The Prince of Dorne leaves with his court then, and Sansa rises and walks over to Arya and Jon. “How much longer will they be here?” 

Arya shrugs. “Another fortnight, perhaps?” 

Sansa groans, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. “I am  _ done _ with that Prince. He honestly thinks he’s the best thing to ever happen in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“It’s going to keep happening, you know,” Arya points out. “These princes and lords are going to keep pursuing you because you’re young, and unmarried.” 

Sansa rolls her eyes. “I’m seven and twenty. I’m not  _ that _ young.” 

“Young enough, and Queen to the largest and currently most powerful Kingdom in Westeros. It’s simply good political maneuvering for them to pursue something with you, you have to give them credit for that. You can still bear their children, and besides, Sansa, you are quite beautiful. Who wouldn’t want you as their wife?” 

Jon shifts, slightly uncomfortable, and Sansa notices this, of course, because Sansa notices everything, and she places a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to accept any of them. I get to choose my husband, and I still choose you, Jon.” 

Arya glances between them, wrinkling her brow. “Why don’t you just marry each other? It would solve a lot of problems and strengthen the North even more. Plus, it would reassure a lot of lords about the potential of an heir.” 

“You’re my heir, Arya,” Sansa points out, brow furrowed. 

Arya’s gaze shifts to the floor. “Yes, well, Brienne is due to come back in a few months from Tarth, and I thought I’d…..take my six months and go to Storm’s End. See if Gendry still wants me.” 

Sansa smiles at her, soft. “Have you spoken to him?” 

Arya shakes her head. “Just some letters, back and forth. I’ve seen him, but not frequently. Not since the end of the Great War. I just...I rejected him because I didn’t want to be a lady.” 

Jon looks over at Sansa, who’s gaze turns sympathetic. “Arya, he didn’t want you to a lady. He wanted you to be  _ his _ lady. He wouldn’t have never tried to turn you into something you weren’t.” Sansa pulls her sister closer, hugging her. “I should have learned that long ago.” 

“You can’t possibly think he still wants me.” 

This time, it’s Jon who speaks. “I think he does, Arya. Sometimes we just meet people who change our lives. Gendry has to want you. Who wouldn’t?” 

She looks up at the both of them. “You think I should go?” 

Sansa laughs. “Yes, Arya! Go as soon as you can.” 

“Plus,” Jon points out, “You won’t be lady. You’ll be a  _ queen. _ ” 

Arya looks at him in shock, but he sees understanding dawn on Sansa’s face. “Gendry’s King of the Stormlands. And Arya will be queen.” 

“Might be,” Arya corrected, looking slightly pale. 

“Will be,” Sansa insisted. “You have to go Arya. For yourself. You deserve this, after all we have been through.”

Arya smiles at her. “And if I go, the two of you have to get married.” 

The smile slips off of Jon’s face. “What?” 

“If I’m at Storm’s End, and if by some miracle Gendry takes me back, I can’t be your heir any longer. Bran can, but that won’t make the lords happy because he can’t have children of his own. The best way to please them and to stop all of the suitors from going after my sister, would be for the both of you to get married. Untie two knots with one pull.” 

Sansa glances at Jon. “I know you said you weren’t ready,” he says, uncertain, “but it does make sense. I’d never want to push you into it, but if you’re ok with it, I am.” 

Sansa stares at him. “You understand what this is, right Jon? Marriage. You and I will be married.” 

The thought brings a giddy smile to Jon’s face, but he forces it down. “Yes, Sansa, that’s what happens after a wedding. 

Sansa rolls her eyes. “I mean, are you alright with the idea?” 

Jon stares at her. “Alright with the idea? Sansa, I have wanted to marry you for  _ years.  _ Are you alright with the idea? You said you weren’t ready to get married.” 

Sansa licks her lips before biting the bottom one, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “Jon, I wasn’t ready a year ago. For the past six months, I have wanted to marry you so badly I can hardly bear it. But I wasn’t sure if you were ready for that either. You seemed so content with the way things were going.” 

He steps closer to her, brings her into his arms. “Content, Sansa. But I would be happy to marry you, to have your child. God, it would be all I have ever wanted.” 

Sansa’s face breaks out into a smile. “So we’ll get married.” 

Jon laughs with her. He kisses her, quick and bright, like a spark of sunlight that peeks through the trees. “We’ll get married.” 

**lxiv. the king and queen in the north**

The day of her wedding dawns, and Sansa feels like it is any other. She is excited to be marrying the man she has loved for years, to be marrying the man she loves more than life itself, but it is still just a day, and if Sansa knows anything about marriage, it is that marriage makes on happy, not a wedding. 

She smoothes down the front of her dress, grey, of course, for House Stark, and Arya moves behind her to drape her maiden’s cloak over her shoulders. Her father had one made for her, or at least, they had begun to stitch it, when he had left for King’s Landing, and whatever was left of her maiden cloak had burned when Theon took Winterfell. 

She feels a little stab of anger at him for stealing even that away from her, but she has long learned that the world is more complicated than the actions in one’s past, and so she pushes it aside.

The cloak she wears now Sansa stitched herself, painstakingly ever since she and Jon decided to marry three moons ago. The entire cloak was covered in little wolves outlined in silver thread, running through the fields, and in the center a large wolf shone, black stones for eyes. The shoulders were lined with wolves’ fur, gray, of course, and running her fingers through it gave her some sense of peace. She closes her eyes and pulls the cloak tighter around herself, and if she bit her tongue and buried her nose directly into the cloak, breathing in its scent, she could almost imagine her mother’s hands running through her hair and her father’s booming laughter. 

“You’re thinking about them, aren’t you,” Arya says softly, running her hands down Sansa’s shoulders. 

She turns to face her sister, and takes her hands in her own. “Of course. They should have seen this day. I wish they were here.” 

“They have always been here, Sansa. They will see today.” 

Sansa smiles at Arya, blinking back tears. “Thank you, Arya.” She looks down at the ground. “I love you, Arya. I will never stop loving you. No matter what we have been through, no matter what happens, you will always,  _ always, _ be my sister.” Arya is silent for a moment, and then she lunges forward, wrapping her hands around Sansa’s waist. 

Sansa clutches her back tightly, before Arya steps back. “The sun and moon,” she laughs. “What Mother would say if she saw us now?” 

“Mother loved you, Sansa. And she wasn’t as wrong about Jon as I would have thought. Don’t worry about what she would have thought.  _ You  _ are the leader of Winterfell now. You deserve it, Sansa. You deserve to be as happy as you want, as happy as you wish. I only wish we had been nicer as children.” 

“You deserve to be as happy as I am, Arya. Have you talked to Gendry?” 

Arya winces. “I am not sure that’s the best decision. I was thinking of just showing up at Storm’s End. He certainly can’t kick the heir of Winterfell out in front of his entire court. Thought it might get him to listen to me.” 

Sansa shakes her head. “Not at all like a lady.” But then she smiles at her sister. “But exactly like Arya Stark.” 

There’s a knock at the door, and a serving girl opens it to say that they are all ready and awaiting the Queen. 

“You ready?” Arya asks.

“Are you?”

“More than I’ve ever been.” Arya nods, and opens the door for her, and Sansa lets her sister lead her to the godswood. 

Sansa had no brothers but Bran left, and he was clearly unable to walk her around the godswood. She hadn’t wanted anyone but Arya to do it anyways, and when she had asked her sister, Arya had been shocked. 

_ “The lords might not like that, Sansa. They’ll want a man to walk you around the godswood, whether it be Davos or someone else.” _

_ Sansa had simply shrugged and smiled at her sister. “Let them defy their queen, if they wish to, then. I only want my sister to give me away.”  _

_ Arya had nodded at that, serious as ever, but Sansa had seen a small smile curve at the corner of her mouth.  _

When they reach the godswood, it is full of Northmen, on both sides, and the sight makes Sansa’s heart swell. It’s summer, but summer in the North was never that warm, and so there was a fine sheen of snow that covered everything, turning the godswood just a little white. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jaime and Brienne, who had just returned from Tarth in time for her wedding, and then Jon. 

Jon stands alone underneath the weirwood tree, dressed in Stark grey and black as usual, so fine, and he looks so handsome her heart aches. There was the slightest hint of a beard darkening his jaw, which only sharpens his features and makes him more appealing. She wishes to toss everything aside and fling herself into his arms, but that would never be possible.

“Who comes? Who comes before the gods?” Jon calls out. Sansa shoots him a shy smile from where she is. 

“Now comes Sansa, of House Stark, Queen of the North, to be wed,” Arya calls out. The snow crunches underneath Sansa’s feet as she steps forward, following Arya’s lead. “A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” 

“Me, Jon, of House Stark,” Jon answers. Once, Sansa might have felt horrified that her husband had so few titles to his name, nothing, truly, but Sansa no longer cared about titles and princes and kings. She cared about kindness and strength and love. “I claim her. Who gives her?” 

“I do, Arya, of House Stark, sister of the bride.” Arya turns to Sansa, whose hand gripped her sister’s arm just a little bit tighter. “Queen Sansa, will you take this man?” 

Sansa freezes for a second, and all she can see is snow, snow, snow, far more of it than there had been. There was no Jon waiting for her at the godswood, only Ramsay, and she was clutching Baelish’s arm, not Arya’s. 

Her sister’s hand over hers breaks the spell that had momentarily come over her, and Sansa breathes, looking around the godswood. Jaime, Brienne, Bran, Theon, all people she loved and trusted, many not northmen born, but northmen in spirit. Other northmen, people she had known for years and some only after she had returned, gathered around. She saw her father, standing beside the weirwood tree, smiling at her, that small, somber smile of his, with the serious face that was always calming. Her mother stood beside her, hand on her waist, a soft smile at the edge of her mouth, and Sansa gave that same soft smile to Jon. 

“I take this man,” Sansa smiles. Arya gives her a sharp smile before pulling her hand away. And Sansa turns to her sister and hugs her tightly before pulling away, moving to Jon. 

Jon’s smile is brighter than a thousand suns, and Sansa cannot help but smile back with the same sort of giddiness. He offers his hand to hers, and she takes it, curling her fingers around his. Together, they face the tree and kneel to pray. 

_ Let me love Jon the way he deserves, _ she prays.  _ Let me love him without fear, without cruelty. Let me love him without boundaries, like he deserves. Let me give him children, as many as we want. Help me be a good wife. Help me be a good mother. Help me be a good queen, to lead my people into a better future. Give me the strength to love and to lead all at the same time. Give me a woman’s strength, like my mother, and give me a wolf’s strength, like my father. Give me the courage to fight the battles Jon cannot, and give me the courage to love him while he fights his own.  _ There are far too many prayers for a typical wedding, but Sansa finds she cannot choke them back. She has so much to hope for now, and she did not want it all to fall to pieces. 

Jon grips her hand tighter, and Sansa looks over at him. They rise, and she turns her back to him. His breath is hot against her neck as he fingers reach around and untie the strings of her cloak from her shoulders, and when the cloak falls off of her shoulders, she wants to scream for it back, but she simply bites her lip and waits. 

Another cloak is settled around her shoulders, just as heavy as the first one, and Sansa realizes wolves’ fur tickles her cheek. She looks at Jon, and he gives her a smile, and Sansa pulls the cloak around herself to see it black, lined in Stark gray, with gray fur, just like her cloak, along the shoulders.  _ From a Stark to a Stark, Jon had said,  _ and Sansa could not be happier or more grateful she is marrying a man who knows her heart almost as well as she does. 

She takes Jon’s hand, smiles at him, and they face the crowd. 

The feast that follows is full of mirth, and joy. Everywhere Sansa looks she sees only familiar faces, only people she recognizes. Singers flood the halls, courtesy of Jaime, who had winked at her and told her that a wedding feast without entertainment was no true wedding feast at all. 

Sansa sits next to Jon, and they are both quiet, but happy. Their shared wine cup goes untouched, a fact not unnoticed by Arya and Bran, both who simply look at the other and then roll their eyes. But there is laughter, booming throughout the halls of Winterfell, and Sansa would get married to Jon a thousand times over because she loves him, but the happiness of her people certainly helps as well.

When it is time for the bedding ceremony, no one dares to disgrace their queen, and so Sansa and Jon leave the festivities in silence, but not without the entire hall raising their glasses to them as they walk down from the high table and slip into a side corridor. 

When she finally makes it inside her bedchamber, _ their bedchamber, _ she reminds herself, she shuts the door behind her and leans against it in relief. “A busy day,” Jon says, moving to slip off his jerkin. 

Sansa nods. “More so than I thought,” she agrees, voice thick with exhaustion. Jon moves behind her and slips the cloak off of her, and he sets it on the chair. 

“I kept both of them,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind.” Sansa opens her eyes and gasps when she sees not just the cloak Jon had put around her shoulders on the chair, but her maiden’s cloak as well. 

“Jon,” she breathes, tears in her eyes. She looks at her husband, her  _ husband, _ who knows her so well. “Thank you.” She steps closer and cups his cheek in her palm. “Thank you.” 

“For you, Sansa, anything,” he murmurs, just before he lowers his lips to hers. Jon undoes the laces of her dress and pulls her gently down onto the bed with him, and her dress pools around her waist as she pushes him back and climbs into his lap, content with kissing him. 

Sansa doesn’t know what it is; the wine, the wedding, the dress,  _ Jon, _ but she is trembling, more excited than ever, and she only trembles more as Jon runs his hands down her arms. 

When he sheds his jerkin and trousers, and she lets the dress fall to the floor, they are both clad in smallclothes, but Sansa finds herself more than content to simply lie there and kiss her husband until her lips fell off. But then Jon shifts underneath her, pressing into her  _ just so, _ and she tears her mouth away to let out a gasp, blood thrumming with anticipation. 

Jon flips them around so Sansa is now the one pressed into the sheets, red hair wild and tangled, and he runs his fingers through it before taking Sansa’s hand and kissing the fingertips lightly. “Hello, my queen.” 

Sansa laughs. “Hello, my husband.” Jon kisses her them, soft and sweet and slow, and Sansa feels like she is moving through honey, thick and enjoying every moment.

When Jon undresses her completely, and his fingers and mouth move down her body, Sansa feels as though there is a soft sort of pleasure overtaking her, sweet and patient. This is not like their other times, when they had fucked harsh and fast and full of pleasure and passion. This is adoration, to kind of love one makes slowly and carefully. 

Jon slips his fingers down to her folds, and thrusts them in slowly. Sansa gasps and smiles then, moving her hips as his fingers thrust in and out, rubbing just against the most perfect spot. “Don’t stop that,” she sighs, eyes slipping closed. 

Jon stops instantly, and Sansa’s eyes fly open, voice whining. “Why?” 

“I won’t stop as long as you keep your eyes open,” he promises. “I want you to look at me. Look me in the eyes as I make you come, Queen Sansa. Remember that only your husband can make you feel like this.” Sansa swallows at his words, dripping with purpose, but then he twists his fingers just so and she is flying, falling apart as her back arches and hands curl into the furs on the bed.

When she finally comes back down to Earth, Jon has already withdrawn his fingers from her and is moving down her body, and she sighs in pleasure when he traces her folds with his tongue and cries out when he buries his face between her legs. 

He licks and sucks and strokes with his tongue, in an endless pattern that makes Sansa want to pass out, and every time Jon pushes her closer to the edge, he pulls her back before she can collapse completely. His tongue moves around her folds, tracing them so gently Sansa wishes he would put a little more pressure so she could finish, but then his teeth graze her and she loses all thought. 

When he finally locks his mouth around her clit, Sansa cries out and arches in surprise, and Jon’s hand shoot to her waist. “Stay in place,” he murmurs softly, and sucks at the little nub. She is writhing, begging, and she needs to come, god she needs to. When his teeth grazes it gently, and he rolls it with his tongue, Sansa nearly screams, only barely choking the sound so it comes out like a half groan half cry. 

Jon detaches his mouth from hers and smirks at Sansa. “I think you can do better than that, your grace.” When he dives back in, thrusting his tongue into her, twisting, moving, and his teeth catch her clit lightly, she breaks, screaming her release into the night as a sharp pleasure moves through her body. It is so intense it feels more like pain, and as the pleasure ebbs away slowly, Sansa breathes, looking up at the ceiling of her bedchambers. 

It takes her a few minutes, but eventually she gets her bearings back enough to kiss Jon firmly, tasting herself on him. She swings a hip around his lap and flips then over, so she is straddling him. “I think it’s time for you now, right, my king?” 

Jon smirks, and kisses her. “What, I thought that  _ was _ for me.” 

Sansa laughs and kisses his collarbone, sliding down his body and pulling his smallclothes off. She takes him into her mouth suddenly, if the gasp that Jon lets out was any indication, and laves her tongue up and down his cock, feeling it harden even more. 

“Sansa,” he breathes, groaning as she traces a prominent vein down it. “Please.” Sansa just smirks and lets her teeth scrape along his cock gently, feeling his hips buck when she reaches a certain spot. Sansa strokes that spot with her tongue and works Jon up until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and then he was pulling her back up to him and kissing her soundly. 

“Are you sure, Sansa?” he asks, like he always does. And she answers as she always does. 

“Yes.” 

He flips her over and lines himself up with her, and then he is pushing into her and all of the stars in the galaxy are exploding behind her eyelids as she screws them shut. Jon stops mid-thrust. “No, Sansa. Remember what I said. Keep your eyes open.” 

Sansa wrenches her eyes open to find Jon looking down at her, and he smiles. “Good girl,” he murmurs, before pushing into her quickly and roughly. She feels so full she can hardly breathe, hardly  _ move, _ completely overwhelmed by the way he feels inside of her, how his cock fits against her. God, was it possible for something to feel this  _ good?  _ She nearly peaks right then and there, the pleasure so intense she claws marks down his back, leg thrown over his back. 

“Not yet, Sansa,” Jon says, kissing her collarbone. He begins to move then, slow, deep thrusts that feel like they go on forever.

“Jon, please,” she begs. “Faster.” She can’t take it anymore, the buildup in her stomach too much. She needs a release, and the worst part is only he can give her one, and she knows that. 

“Don’t beg, Sansa,” Jon chides, thrusting into her and hitting a spot that made her clench tighter around him.”It’s not becoming of a Queen.” Jon pulls out completely and then pushes back entirely into Sansa, so slow it feels like a thousand years have passed while he is moving inside her. 

Her entire world narrows to Jon, his cock inside of her and the scrape of his beard against her neck, his voice in her ear and his hands moving up and down her body. Right now, there is nothing but the two of them. 

Jon pushes quicker inside of her, and Sansa screams as the head of his cock scrapes against the most sensitive spot inside of her. Jon smirks and does it again, until Sansa can hardly take it. “Please, Jon,  _ please, _ ” she begs, writhing underneath him. 

Jon takes pity on her and catches her earlobe between his teeth, pulling at it gently before letting go and whispering in her ear, “Come, Sansa.” 

It’s like the words are all she needs, and just as Jon pushes as far into her as he can, she shatters, walls clamping down around him tightly, and she feels her entire body arch up into him just as he swears and bites into her neck. She rakes her nails down his back, trying to hold on as her entire body shakes slightly, convulsing in pleasure. Just as the pleasure waves starts to recede, Jon spills inside of her, and the feeling of his cock pulsing inside of her body draws out her finish longer, and she is overwhelmed. 

He lies there after he has spent himself inside of her, and she breathes softly, Cradling her fingers through his hair. When Jon finally pulls out of her, he does slowly, but she still winces. 

She ignores the pain, which fades quickly anyways, and curls into his side. “Hello, Jon Stark,” she says softly. 

The name brings a bright smile to Jon’s face, and he kisses her through it. It’s a messy, frankly terrible kiss, because Sansa can hardly keep herself from smiling as well. But it’s pure joy, and after all they have been through, Sansa is absolutely gleeful that this is what Jon feels. She closes her eyes as Jon pulls away from her, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, and she breathes in his scent. This is what she has wanted for him, for years. She has wanted this for years, and as she searches her soul, she can find nothing but happiness there. 

“Hello there, Sansa Stark,” Jon says back to her, tipping her head back with his fingers so he can look her in the eyes. He pulls the furs over them, and she sighs, curling into his side. The room should be cold, as they did not even think to light a fire before coupling, but Sansa feels nothing but warmth underneath the furs and next to Jon. 

“This is everything I have ever wanted,” he whispers to her, stroking her cheek. A tear escapes his eye and drops onto her cheek, and Sansa wipes it away with her hand. “Sometimes I don’t dare think I deserve it all.” 

Sansa frowns at him. “Don’t say that, Jon. Believe me. I love you, and I think you deserve the whole world and more. You deserve a castle full of children, of laughter and happiness. You deserve an easy life, after all that you have been through.” 

Jon smiles at her, and Sansa can see it, the moment in his eyes when he truly does believe that she loves him, when he does think, for a split second, that he deserves his dream. Sansa can hardly scold him. There are, of course, times still when her breath catches in her throat and she is sure Ramsay will come after her, but she only has to look at Jon, to look at Arya, to be sure he will never come back again. Sansa does not think she deserves her dream all of the time, but she is learning that she has earned her dream, at least partially. She wishes for Jon to learn the same thing. 

“I love you, Jon. That is something that will never change. Have faith in that.” 

“Words are hollow things, Sansa,” Jon murmurs, “but I believe you. I love you, more than the stars in the sky and the water in the ocean.” 

“The North and our people are happy, Jon. There is peace.” 

“Do you think it will remain?” he asks her. 

She sighs and looks at him. “I don’t know, to be honest. I’m praying to all the gods, old and new, that it does. I am tired of war.” 

“As am I, Sansa. We just have to take it slowly.” 

Sansa thinks about his words then, and as her husband falls asleep beside her, Sansa studies his sleeping face and makes her own vow in her marriage bed, makes her own vow with only the stars and the gods as her witness. 

_ I will love him slowly. I will love him with bravery, with gentleness, with strength. I will love him with patience and with kindness and with all that I am. I will love him one day at a time. _

**lxv. the wolves of winterfell**

They whisper the story around pints of ale, in halls where gusts of winds whistle through the cracks, where the snow piles up so high no one can get out, where the world turns silent and old for a moment. They whisper the story of the Starks of Winterfell. 

They talk about the Winter Queen, the winter rose, who freed the North after years of tyranny. Who single handedly stared down the dragon queen and did not flinch, who was the first and best queen the North has ever seen. Who was more teeth than woman, when it came to her family. Who ruled the North with more justice than many had seen, who always had an extra room in her castle free, who tore anyone who dared harm the North or her family to shreds. 

They whisper of her husband, the king, though no one called him that. The White, Winter Wolf, they saw him as. They whispered about how he was more wolf than man, how he saved her from the evil men and how she saved him from the dragon queen, how he fought for her in battle and how he killed for her. How he stalked the walls of Winterfell every night, turning into a massive white direwolf with red, glowing eyes, teeth snarling. 

They talk of her sister, more wolf than human, quicker than a cat. They called her Mercy, for if she gave you it, then you lived, and if you found herself on the end of her sword, and she found you unworthy of it, you breathed your last. They talk of her sister, wandering, wandering, wandering, who killed an entire family with her bare hands and who ended the Long Night, who killed the Ice King. How she was her sister’s fiercest protector. 

They talk of the boy with no legs, how he saw far too much and knew everything. How he spent his days staring at the sky when he was not with his family, how his eyes seemed to pierce everyone they were looking at, like he was connecting the thread of destiny over and over and over again all by himself. They whisper of the boy with no legs, who saw all and told his dark-haired sister who deserved her Mercy, and who did not. 

They whisper of their children, five wolves born to them. 

They whisper of the eldest girl, born on a night where it seemed that winter had come again, to the howling of wolves, to the full moon, born with her father’s dark hair and her mother’s blue eyes, a just and noble queen. 

They whisper of the second boy, born in the middle of day, a bright, beautiful day where the sun hung heavy in the sky, like a piece of gold, born with red hair and blue eyes, a fierce and noble warrior, better than even his father. 

They whisper of the two girls, twins, born in the middle of the night, one with dark hair and one with red, both with Stark grey eyes, who married and became queens in their own right, who ruled over their kingdoms with kindness, and who were said to have poisoned all those who hurt their family. 

They whisper of the youngest boy, who was born just as the sun was rising, who was born with dark hair and grey eyes like his father, who became an archer and a warrior, who married the princess of the Westerlands, and defended his home just as fiercely as his father defended Winterfell. 

They whisper of the Starks of Winterfell, who seemed too much like wolves to be human. They talk of the Starks of Winterfell, but only as legends, as things to be admired. 

Most adults dismiss it as a wives’ tale, as adults are wont to do, forced to live lives without creativity or belief. But that does not stop the songs, does not stop the whispers that carry themselves on the backs of the wind and birds. 

It is a tale as old as the weirwood trees themselves, as old as the stones on the Kingsroad, as old as the Red Keep, as old as the First Men themselves. 

The Starks of Winterfell are nothing more than a bedtime story for most children, people know. Even only 300 years later, they still think the Starks of Winterfell false. After all, who ever heard of something as absurd of dragons and direwolves? It was a tale too fanciful for most, but it was something that kept the children occupied. 

Who would ever believe the story of the Winter Queen and her knight of snow, their epic tale? Who loves another like that? Who loves against all reason like that? What sort of man fought an entire army for just one woman? What sort of woman defied a queen for just one man? No, they simply laugh and shake their heads, dismissing the legend of the Starks of Winterfell as just that, a legend, a story. 

But those who are old, and who see the magic hidden in the old weirwood trees, who see the mystery in the old caves, who run their hands along the castle of Winterfell and feels the ghosts that walk those halls, they know. They remember. The Starks of Winterfell are not  _ just _ a story. They are the wolves of the North themselves, and they whisper that whenever a wolf howls in the North during winter, one of the Starks of Winterfell has returned home. 

They feel it in the air and the way red eyes sometimes follow them in their dreams, in the sound of Valyrian steel in the air, in the smell of lemons and the rough softness of black fur. The true believers, they remember the story of the Starks of Winterfell, and they respect it. They know the truth, better than all those who dismiss the legend.

In the north, it has, and will always, be, a time for wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment and leave kudos! you can find me on tumblr @parkersedith

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr: @ [parkersedith](https://parkersedith.tumblr.com)


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